


Ave Maria

by Kyele



Series: the greatest of these [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (or at least the Richelieu version of it), M/M, Political Intrigue, Romance, What Happened in Savoy, nonexplicit references to hate crimes and speech, okay the obliviousness is mostly Treville, soooo this grew a plot on me, stubborn oblivious boys, the courting fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years from now, Richelieu will say, <i>"Need I remind you that we are tied together by decisions we both took in Savoy five years ago?"</i></p>
<p>And Treville will answer, <i>"There’s not been one night since then I haven’t thought of it."</i></p>
<p>In which Richelieu goes courting, Cluzet goes fishing, Marie de' Medici goes for broke, Treville's Musketeers go to Savoy, and the Cardinal and the Captain go and fall in love.</p>
<p>(The courting fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a light, sweet, romance-y fic. And shorter than this. And posted a lot sooner.
> 
> Then it grew a plot. Oops?

Nothing boosts the popularity of a monarch like an attempted assassination. When Louis rides back into Paris at the head of a column of Guards and Musketeers, he’s greeted by an adoring populace. His nobles fall all over themselves to admire Louis’ incredible bravery and fortitude. Anne practically rushes into his arms. If it weren’t for the inevitable mortal danger aspect, Richelieu would almost wish attempted assassinations occurred more often.

Perhaps there’s a way to have one without the other. Rumors have a way of growing with distance. Louis’ horse might stumble briefly in the south of France; three days later, all of Paris might hear that he had survived being thrown from said horse. Thrown a thousand feet. Straight off a cliff. One with big sharp rocks at the bottom, even.

Something to look into.

Anyway, Gasteau is dead and Louis is safe, so Richelieu has no compunction against enjoying the rewards. Louis is generous with the limelight. Richelieu’s influence, never small, soars; he cements several advantages while the window of opportunity is open, binding himself even more closely to the throne.

Gasteau’s papers prove helpful here. In addition to those containing promises of support from various nobility – promises those nobles are now deeply regretting making, never mind committing to paper – are documentation of various secrets. If they were published, several sons would discover themselves suddenly illegitimate, more than one wife would be sent to a convent for adultery, and three prominent noblemen would have to flee for their lives. The possessors of these secrets discover a sudden loyalty to the throne. They also feel the sudden need to make generous donations to the Church. After all, nothing in this life is free.

Some of Gasteau’s secrets, however, are too valuable to use except in the greatest emergency. Those Richelieu locks away in the safest, most secret drawer in his desk in the Palais-Cardinal. Among them is Gasteau’s prized parchment: a sworn statement attesting to his birth and parentage, signed and witnessed by both his nurse, one Mme de Touchard, and by his birth mother. One day Richelieu will devote some of his attention to determining the identity of the woman who bore Gasteau. The apparent signature is jumbled and meaningless, probably the work of an illiterate who nevertheless wished to pretend nobility. Richelieu would shake his head over it, but honestly, France would have been better off if Henry IV had confined himself exclusively to peasant women. Every noble mistress _le vert galant_ had taken had made no end of trouble for France.

Never mind the Queen Mother.

Regardless, Gasteau is proving to be exceptionally useful in death. Richelieu consolidates his new alliances and adds several new revenue streams to France’s coffers as well as his own. It’s going to be a good year.

In fact, Richelieu is so unconcerned with his own affairs that he finds time to spare to be concerned about the Musketeers. Louis has doubled their corps, both as a reward and as insurance against a future assassination attempt. With their ranks so increased, Richelieu observes that their current facilities are woefully inadequate. And their funding needs an increase as well. Richelieu adjusts the budget accordingly and has several sites evaluated for their potential as garrisons. Something close enough to the Louvre that they can be easily within call of the King, but not so close that they can’t keep an ear to the ground of the city. Not too far from the Palais-Cardinal, either. Richelieu spends quite a while considering the merits of the candidate locations. How important is a well? Will the King ever need to take cover there? Should it have accommodations for an extended stay?

The King remarks upon Richelieu’s preoccupation one day in with the innocence of perfect ignorance. “My word, Cardinal,” Louis says cheerfully. “I had no idea it was possible to have such domestic harmony between the Church and the military. I’d have gotten myself shot at sooner if I’d have known this would happen!”

Treville, who is of course present, grits his teeth and mutters something about his Majesty taking care of his person.

Louis merely laughs. The moment they’d been safely back in Paris, it had been as if Louis had forgotten there'd ever been any danger in the whole thing.

“When one is in mortal danger with another, one often learns an entirely new side of that man’s character,” Richelieu says smoothly. “What once was animosity may turn into respect. Or perhaps something even greater.”

“What, friendship?” Louis laughs again. “Now that would truly be something, Cardinal. I encourage you. I encourage you both. Be friends. I should like nothing better.”

Treville looks like he doesn’t know what to make of this. Finally he bows, hiding his conflicting emotions. At least, hiding them from Richelieu. Louis, as usual, is oblivious.

“Splendid,” the King says, taking this for assent. “Now. What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Cardinal?”

“The Musketeers’ barracks and practice yards,” Richelieu says, enjoying the way Treville turns to him in surprise. “With your Majesty having generously expanded their number, I fear their current facilities may be too small.”

“We can manage,” Treville says at once, looking at Richelieu with suspicion.

“I am sure you could,” Richelieu says serenely. “You are such loyal and dedicated servants of France it would probably never occur to you to ask for anything. But if we are to expect your men to continue to defend the King so admirably, in such a dangerous world, we must make sure you have all the resources you require.”

“That’s an excellent point, Cardinal,” Louis says. “Come now, Treville, don’t be shy. What do you need? Another barracks, the Cardinal says? Yes, of course you must need more space, with more men.”

“That would certainly be handy,” Treville says cautiously, gaze flickering between the King and the Cardinal. The Captain is terrible at hiding his thoughts: he’s swinging between frank desire for additional funding and suspicion for Richelieu’s motives in suggesting it.

“And equipment, naturally,” Richelieu cuts in. “Another practice yard – really, you shall need a second of everything.”

“That stands to reason,” Louis agrees. “Twice as many men, twice as much equipment.” He smiles, pleased. He does so love being generous. It’s usually Richelieu who is restraining him, always mindful of France’s treasury. Perhaps that’s why he turns to Richelieu and says, “Cardinal, can I trust you to see to it? Make sure Captain Treville gets everything he needs. You see how modest he is. You’ll have to work quite hard to make sure he’s treated as he’s worth.”

Treville looks like he’s about to choke on his own tongue. Richelieu lets his own mouth spread into a warm smile. “I can absolutely promise it, your Majesty.”

“Good, good.” Louis claps his hands together, already distracted. They’ve been walking the Louvre as they talk, and they’ve come to the door to the gardens, where Anne and her women are visible in the distance, strolling and talking together. “Then I’ll leave it to you. Excuse me.” Louis throws the doors open and walks out, calling ahead to the Queen.

Richelieu watches him go with satisfaction. France’s succession is looking assured. And his own affairs are shaping up nicely.

He should take Treville to see that site near the Luxembourg. Richelieu is not quite sure whether it’s large enough; Treville will be able to judge his own needs much more accurately than the Cardinal can.

Richelieu turns away from the doors to the gardens and walks on further into the Louvre, not needing to turn his head to see that Treville has unconsciously fallen into step beside him. The Captain opens and closes his mouth several times, clearly working his way up to something. Finally, after they’ve turned a corner, Treville bursts out with, “I don’t want to be bribed any more than I want to be blackmailed.”

Richelieu has a split second to decide between being offended and amused. He chooses the latter. “My dear Treville,” he says, letting warmth fill his tone, watching with pleasure as Treville reddens slightly. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“A new practice yard? Barracks? Equipment?” Treville raises an eyebrow, slowing his steps and turning to face Richelieu.

“Nothing more than you require,” Richelieu says innocently. He notices that they’ve come back towards one of the administrative wings of the palace, where there’s considerably less foot traffic. They are, in fact, quite alone.

“I’ll be the judge of what we require,” Treville says.

“Such a loyal servant as yourself would never ask for more than the bare minimum,” Richelieu disagrees in the same innocent tone. “It is therefore my duty to give you the things you won’t ask for.”

“As a loyal son of France?”

“The very same.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” Treville wonders aloud.

“I have no idea.”

“Cardinal.” Treville gives him a penetrating gaze. “Something can be deserved and still be a bribe.”

Richelieu blinks. “I fail to see how.”

Treville signs. “Yes, my Musketeers deserve additional funding and resources. But so do many others. France isn’t exactly rich at the moment. Someone has to do without.”

“And…?” Richelieu is still having difficulty following Treville’s train of thought. The paucity of France’s coffers are eternally on his mind, of course, but part of his job is allocating those resources as judiciously as possible. And it’s going to be a good year.

Treville looks around the empty hallway, then seizes Richelieu’s sleeve – he’d worn ecclesiastical robes today – and yanks him into an equally empty office, whose door Treville closes.

“ _And,_ ” Treville says, “I want to know why you’ve suddenly decided that the Musketeers are no longer the ones who need to do without.”

“You are responsible for the King’s safety,” Richelieu says patiently. “That’s fairly important to France.”

Treville rolls his eyes. “A month ago you thought my budget was too extravagant. I specifically remember you asking me if I _really_ needed that many musket-balls, and whether my men couldn’t practice their musketry with blanks.”

“And two weeks ago, the strength of their musketry was the only thing that kept the King’s head firmly on his shoulders.”

“That’s what’s causing your change of heart?” Treville stands in the middle of the room, stance wide, feet planted, arms crossed across his chest. It’s belligerent and defensive all at once. His words attack, but his body language is cautious.

Richelieu gives Treville his most disbelieving look. “I would have thought my motives would be fairly obvious.”

“Your motives are exactly the question,” Treville says. He sighs. “Look, I don’t doubt that you want to protect the King. I also don’t doubt that, if you have the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, you’ll do exactly that. So if you really think it will make the King safer – and I agree, by the way – go ahead and fund me to your heart’s content. But if you think that throwing money and favors in my direction is going to make me inclined to – to – ” Treville falls abruptly silent, casting another searching gaze around the room. “You know,” he says, almost defensively, barely audible. “I’m not a whore, either.”

Richelieu blinks, taken aback. This… is not what he'd been expecting.

His instinctive response is to tell Treville not to be an idiot. What on earth is the man going on about? Is this how Treville reacts when anyone does something nice for him? Richelieu is frankly offended.

Then he stops and considers it.

The Cardinal hadn’t been thinking, specifically, that he could buy Treville’s affection with gifts and a bigger ammunition budget. But Richelieu _had_ been feeling considerably more positively inclined towards the Captain of the King’s Musketeers since the hunting-lodge. He’s been reacting towards the Musketeers the same way he reacts towards his Guards: they need something? Find it, fund it, acquire it. And the root of that is the change in Richelieu’s thinking. Treville is no longer an enemy. He’s not even an ally. He’s – Richelieu’s. And, therefore, he will have the best.

Hmm. Perhaps Treville’s not _entirely_ wrong.

He starts to tell him so, then stops, noticing something else. Treville, waiting for Richelieu’s response, is darting continued, furtive glances around the room. In fact, if Richelieu rewinds his memory of this conversation, the Captain’s been doing it the entire time.

Richelieu’s seen Treville do it before many times. In the field, when guarding the King, such situational awareness is necessary. But Treville still does it even when there’s no need.

It could be nothing. It could be as simple as an old soldier’s habit, automatic, ingrained, and fundamentally harmless. But the last few days have given Richelieu a new perspective.

The Captain is afraid. Not of gifts or favors as such, but of what they might mean.

Louis had remarked on it today. _I had no idea it was possible to have such domestic harmony between the Church and the military,_ he’d said. Louis had meant it as a joke; Richelieu had taken it as one, unconcerned. But Treville had twitched, Richelieu recalls now. Treville had not taken it as a joke.

He’s not afraid of getting a new barracks – he’s afraid that someone might interpret this as _Richelieu giving him_ a new barracks. Might look at the sudden accord between the Cardinal and the Captain and draw the right conclusion.

Fortunately _,_ Treville is also right about how Richelieu operates: as many birds with a single stone as possible. There _are_ practical reasons for Richelieu to favor the Musketeers. If those are what Treville needs to hear in order to accept the funds – not to mention all of the other things Richelieu wants him to have – then that’s what Richelieu will tell him.

“My concern is entirely for the King’s life,” Richelieu offers, keeping his body language loose and open. His tone adds a touch of impatience, as one who states the obvious. “I am going to make sure nothing like this happens again. Louis has more enemies than I realized; he consequently needs more guards. Hence your new facilities and increased funding.”

Treville considers this. “That’s all?” he asks guardedly, suspicion still coloring his words.

“That’s all,” Richelieu says, and just like that, it’s the truth.

Imperceptibly, Treville relaxes. The subtle loosening makes him look suddenly younger. And considerably more approachable. Richelieu has to step on the urge to reach out and touch him.

Actually, why not? They’re alone, this wing of the palace is quiet…

A second glance at Treville puts the end to that idea. While he’s loosened up some, he’s hardly relaxed. He’s only shed the extra tension that had been on him a few moments ago. But Richelieu sees, now that he’s looking, exactly how much tension that still leaves Treville with. How much tension he must carry around all day, every day, and just count it part of normal existence.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Richelieu says quietly. He knows, intellectually, that simply telling Treville this won’t have any effect. But he’s got to try something, and he hasn’t got anything else prepared.

Treville, predictably enough, laughs. “Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Richelieu thinks of arguing. He’s pretty sure now that Treville _is_ afraid of him. Not in the way Treville would think – the Captain isn’t afraid of the Cardinal; the Cardinal’s political power doesn’t scare him, nor his money nor his status in the Church – but he’s still afraid. Treville is afraid of Richelieu. Because Richelieu knows what he is, and while Richelieu has given him more than enough assurance that Richelieu won’t expose Treville, he’s given him no assurance at all that he won’t _pursue_ Treville. Exactly the opposite. Richelieu has every intention of pursuing Treville.

And that scares Treville. But saying so will get him nowhere right now.

“I’ll try to be serious,” Richelieu settles for saying, neatly avoiding an outright lie.

Treville gives him a suspicious look. “All right.”

“All right.”

Treville pauses again. Waiting for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t get it. He sighs instead. “Good day, then.”

He strides towards the door, brushing by Richelieu as he goes. In another moment, he’s gone.

Richelieu remains a moment longer, gathering his thoughts. He’d known perfectly well that Rome hadn’t been built in a day. Today Treville walks away; one day soon he’ll walk back.

In the meanwhile, Richelieu’s far more inclined to focus on another fact. The office isn’t tiny. He and Treville had been standing a reasonable distance apart from each other. But Treville had still somehow needed to brush past Richelieu in order to pass by.

Both here and in the hunting lodge. Mixed signals. Interest, but distance. Desire. And fear.

What part of it does Treville fear, Richelieu wonders? The increased risk of exposure that brings? Possibly. Something as simple as Richelieu supporting increased funding for his Musketeers, after an assassination attempt on the King nearly succeeds, had had Treville looking at Richelieu with dismay.

But that’s not all of it, Richelieu is sure. There’s something else here. He’ll have to figure out what it is before he can proceed.

Richelieu leaves the Louvre thoughtfully, turning various possibilities over in his head.

* * *

Richelieu means to spend the next few weeks simultaneously improving the King’s security and pursuing a certain Captain of the Musketeers, but both of these plans are derailed when the Queen Mother decides that the recent assassination attempt on her baby boy merits her immediate presence. Marie de’ Medici rides into Paris with a full entourage, tearfully clasps her precious Louis to her chest, rails against the growing lawlessness of the lower classes, and gets right to work disrupting the balance of court.

The Cardinal should really have seen this coming. At heart, Marie de’ Medici is a power-hungry opportunist, and this is nothing if not an opportunity. Although Louis has been persuaded to remain, outwardly, on good terms with his mother – it doesn’t play well with the people for the King to be on the outs with the woman who gave him life – even he isn’t naïve enough to take her protestations of love and concern seriously. Louis shoves the problem of dealing with her on Richelieu and flees the city at the first opportunity.

In a sense, this is only fair, since it had been Richelieu who convinced him to make a pretense of family unity. But Louis insists on taking Treville with him, along with almost every Musketeer in Paris. Richelieu can’t even argue, since Louis is essentially repeating the exact same hunting trip that nearly got him killed last time. The Cardinal would have sent half his own Guards along if he'd have Treville wouldn’t be furious at the implied insult to his Musketeers.

“That dreadful assassin,” the Queen Mother is saying one morning for the fiftieth time, voice tearful. “I just can’t believe that anyone could hate my poor Louis so much. But then, every time I look at him, I see my baby boy!” She raises her eyes to the heavens, then cuts them at Anne, who, like Richelieu, is unable to escape. Marie insists on holding court with Anne – in Anne’s own sitting rooms, no less, since Louis is out of town – and Anne has made it quite clear that as long as _she_ must endure, so must Richelieu.

“One day you’ll understand what agony this brings me,” Marie says to the Queen, in a voice perfectly free of the malice that nevertheless underlie her words. “If you ever have a son, and you see people trying to kill him all the time… I could hardly sleep last night! Could I, Catherine?”

“No, your Majesty,” Marie’s maid says dutifully, not looking up from her stitching.

“Travelling sometimes has that effect,” Anne murmurs.

Marie turns to Richelieu, which at least frees Anne up to press her lips tightly together and finger her prayer-beads, presumably reminding herself that murder is a mortal sin. “Cardinal, you are supposed to be Louis’ First Minister. How is it that you allow these threats to remain?”

Richelieu pastes on his most unctuous smile. “My lady, come now,” he says as smoothly as he can. “You must not let your maternal feelings blind you to reality. One disgruntled former soldier and thirty mercenaries are hardly a serious threat to His Majesty. Why, a company of Musketeers – ”

“But you allowed him to be caught in the open with only a dozen guards!” Marie de’ Medici cries, hands flying up to emphasize the magnitude of Richelieu’s failure. “If your reinforcements had not arrived in time, he would have been killed!”

“We were only a few hours from Paris,” Richelieu reminds her, resolutely not thinking of the desperate half-hour, holding the door to Louis’ refuge with Treville, as their bullets dwindled and Gasteau’s men kept coming. “There was never really any doubt of the outcome, your Majesty.”

“I have always felt very safe with the Cardinal’s ministry,” Anne says unexpectedly, coming to Richelieu’s rescue and pulling Marie’s attention back towards her. “Between he and Captain Treville, I never have a moment’s worry.”

Richelieu shoots the Queen a grateful glance. Anne hates the Queen Mother even more than Richelieu does; while his feelings are for reasons of state, hers are far more personal. Marie has never missed an opportunity to try to keep Anne subordinate to her, and Louis, far too often, leaves Anne to fight her own battles. In general Anne and Richelieu end up on the opposite side of any issue, but Marie de’ Medici, as in so many other arenas, is the exception to that rule.

“Well, my dear, you’re young,” Marie is saying condescendingly. “When you’ve lived a little longer, you’ll be more alert to threats.”

“Truly your advancing age is a sadness to us all,” Anne replies, going straight for the jugular in a move that would have done the Cardinal proud. “I know it grieves my husband terribly to see what Time has done to you.”

Richelieu keeps his face still with an effort. Marie is less successful: her jaw drops and she turns an ugly red.

“Now see here,” she begins in a furious tone. Anne tilts her chin up, ready for a fight.

The sound of a knock on the casement breaks the sudden tension. Marie’s maid Catherine rises promptly to open the door. Anne’s maid, halfway out of her chair for the same purpose, settles back at a gesture from the Queen. Richelieu catches Anne’s gaze and attempts to transmit patience to her using only his eyes.

A murmured conversation at the door resolves itself when Catherine steps back, allowing a servant in palace livery to take a single step into the room. “Your Majesties,” he says to the space in between Anne and Marie, wise enough to the dynamics of the royal family to avoid taking sides. “Cardinal,” he adds to Richelieu. “An envoy has arrived from the Duchy of Savoy.”

“Send him in,” Anne says, almost before the man has finished talking, cutting Marie off before she’s done more than open her mouth.

The servant steps aside in his turn. A man in Savoyan uniform enters the room. Richelieu recognizes him as a minor noble – not that the duchy really has any significant nobility – who maintains considerable interests in France and is thus often employed as a go-between. He bows to the room at large.

“Honored Queens,” he says, also deftly avoiding the thorny questions of precedence, and real versus titular power. “Your Eminence. I bring the latest news from your neighbor the Duchy of Savoy, and letters from the Duke and Duchess to his Majesty Louis XIII.”

The man produces a small packet, still closed tight. Anne and Marie both reach towards it at the same time. In the instant when they freeze, shooting each other biting looks, Richelieu steps forward. The Savoyan noble hands the packet to him gratefully, bowing again, and manages to be gone before Richelieu finishes turning away.

“Open it up, Cardinal,” Anne directs, still glaring at Marie, “and share the news with us.”

“Inasmuch as you can,” Marie adds smoothly. “I’m sure a great many of those documents will be for my Louis’ eyes only.”

“You are of course unaware that my Louis has no secrets from the Cardinal,” Anne says, just as smoothly.

“So far away as I am, there are nuances that escape me,” Marie pretends to agree, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve often thought I should relocate closer to Paris.”

“But you must think of your health,” Anne counters, reverting to her victory of moments ago. “I know it would worry my Louis terribly to expose you to the noise and chaos of the capitol.”

Richelieu tunes out the feuding Queens and skims quickly through the packet. There are newspapers and several official documents from the court of Savoy. It’s the usual dross. Nothing significant appears from beginning to end except for some personal letters to the King from his sister, the Duchess. Two of them are addressed to _my dear brother Louis_. The third is slightly different; it’s directed simply to _my dear brother_ , with no Christian name appended _._

Richelieu glances over; Anne and Marie are focused entirely on each other. A quick, deft motion, and the third letter disappears beneath Richelieu’s robes.

“Anything of interest, my dear Cardinal?” Marie asks. She is smiling sweetly; Anne looks pinched. It seems the current Queen came out the loser in the latest battle of words.

“Letters for the King from his sister,” Richelieu says, showing the Queens the direction, then setting them carefully aside. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to have them.” He bows. “The remainder of the packet is the usual diplomatic papers – terribly dull, but they must be dealt with if we are to remain on good terms with Savoy. Perhaps your Majesties will excuse me?”

“Of course,” Marie beats Anne to saying. “I know you have many claims on your time, Cardinal. Anne and I will amuse ourselves. Won’t we, dear?”

Anne inclines her head. Her eyes are shooting daggers at Richelieu.

He dips his eyebrows to convey his regret. He really does feel badly about leaving Anne with Marie. If he leaves the two of them alone all day, Anne will be in such a foul mood that she won’t let the King into her bed for a full month. Despite the little honeymoon they’d enjoyed after Gasteau’s attempt on his life, there’s still no hint of an heir.

But it can’t be helped. A report from Christine Marie is significant; her position is precarious enough that she only writes when she has intelligence. Accordingly, he bows again and withdraws.

“Well, now that we’re alone, perhaps we can discuss more feminine matters,” he hears Marie saying as Catherine closes the door behind him. “I’ve been wondering about the drapes in the throne room. Don’t you think they’re awfully dull?”

Richelieu shudders. Then he makes tracks for the Palais-Cardinal.

* * *

As with all things in this world, the King’s popularity has a season, which draws in its own time to its end. In this case, it ends about the time Louis returns from the hunting lodge, largely restored to his usual self, and resigned to, if not exactly happy about, returning to regular life. As his first action upon returning is to reassure his mother that he’s fine and distract her with a series of parties, Richelieu is more than willing to live with this.

Marie’s new preoccupation frees Richelieu up to deal with the news from Savoy. Christine Marie writes that the Duke has recently been persuaded to make overtures to Spain. Savoy has been theoretically neutral since Henry IV had signed the Treaty of 1601, and the marriage of the King’s sister to Victor Amadeus had been supposed to cement the ties between them. In practice the situation has been considerably more murky. The economic ties between their countries have been growing, and France lies between Savoy and Spain, both points in France’s favor. But the Sovereign Duke has resisted signing an explicit treaty of alliance, and his Chancellor, Cluzet, makes no secret of his preference for a Spanish alliance. The Treaty of 1601 gives Savoy explicit rights of passage through France for the purpose of reaching Spain. It had been intended to preserve Savoy’s trade routes, especially in the late summer and winter when sea passage becomes unreliable. Cluzet has extended its purpose to include diplomatic correspondence. Not technically a violation, but a sign of Savoy’s increasingly distant posture towards France.

Now comes the news that Cluzet has somehow persuaded Victor Amadeus to begin formal negotiations with Spain towards a treaty. The Duchess writes that Savoy will soon be sending Spain its opening position. She is doing her best to convince her husband that a copy of the letter should be sent to France as well, on the grounds that France will want to offer terms of its own, and Savoy can only benefit from two competing suitors for its treaty. Richelieu is already beginning to put together a treaty package, though he suspects that any negotiations Savoy may undertake with Spain will ultimately only be a cover for some other military action. He’s also sending additional spies to Savoy, though given the time frame he may have to work with, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to position themselves in time. Christine Marie’s continued correspondence will be France’s strongest advantage. Regardless, until Savoy opens negotiations, Richelieu can only wait.

Meanwhile, life at court goes on as spring extends into summer. The nobility spend their time in an endless whirl of rides, hunting-parties, water-parties, and balls. As the memory of Gasteau’s assassination attempt fades, Louis reverts to form, and much of his generosity disappears.

Richelieu watches it happen philosophically. He’s made quite a lot of hay of it already, and even managed to shovel some in Treville’s direction. The construction of the new garrison is going well. Richelieu’s having it built with room to grow, and decided in favor of having the barracks built on-site. It’s considerably more convenient to have the Musketeers located all in one place near the palace. The current model of having them live wherever they can find lodgings has a measurable impact on their response times.

Treville finds out about this when he goes to visit the construction site. He’d have found out about it sooner if he’d answered Richelieu’s letters during the King’s hunting trip or given his opinion before he’d left. Given his lack of input, Richelieu had felt authorized to go ahead and do what he thinks best.

Unsurprisingly, Treville doesn’t see it this way. Richelieu’s getting a little frustrated with how hard it is to get Treville to accept any advantage. The Cardinal is starting to wonder how the man had ever managed to get promoted, let alone rise to become Captain of the Musketeers. He’s surprisingly resistant to anything that might advance his own interests.

“It’s not that I’m resistant,” Treville says when Richelieu puts this to him one day, when he’s managed to get Treville alone. They’re in the same quiet corner of the Louvre where they’d had their last conversation. Richelieu had checked; the office had been available, so he’s had it officially assigned to Guardsman Jussac, who he’s pronounced official liaison to the Musketeers’ corps.

Of course, Richelieu has made sure Jussac knows that Richelieu will be doing some liaising of his own, and that the office is not actually intended for Jussac’s use. Jussac has been in Richelieu’s service since he'd been a boy; he understands perfectly well how to interpret these orders.

Treville goes on, “I just don’t like accepting gifts without knowing the obligations they put me under.”

“Not every gift confers an obligation,” Richelieu says.

Treville looks at him like he’s grown a third head. “Did I just hear the infamous Cardinal Richelieu say that?” he wonders aloud. “Of course they do.”

Richelieu has to smile a little. Treville’s right, of course, that’s how court politics work. But, “I hope you don’t think that way about my gifts.”

“Yours most of all,” Treville returns. He glances around the empty room as if it may have suddenly sprouted ears, and lowers his voice. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said to me.”

“When?” Richelieu asks, affecting innocence.

“You know perfectly well. You said you wanted to become better acquainted.”

“That’s right.” Richelieu lets himself take a step closer, into Treville’s personal space. They can hardly get too intimate here, but a brief assignation…

“What is it you really want?”

Richelieu stops short and gives Treville a look of pure disbelief. “I thought we settled this already,” he says with more patience than he feels. “I want _you_.”

Treville takes a step back. “Why?”

Richelieu considers this and decides it’s an invitation. He takes a corresponding step forward and replies, “Because I find you fascinating.”

Treville takes another half-step back, drawing up short when he runs into the wall. “Surely you can come up with something better than _that_ ,” he says, naked disbelief in his tone.

Richelieu takes the final step and leans forward – not quite touching, but their breaths mingle. It’s early, and the air is still cool, not yet full summer. “I could,” he agrees. “But as a clergyman, I’m rather expected to stick to the truth.”

He leans in. Treville’s lips are cool from the chill in the air, but they warm rapidly under Richelieu’s own. After a moment, Treville groans and hauls him close, parting before Richelieu in the most welcoming way imaginable.

Richelieu considers this and compares it to the conversation that they’ve just had. He concludes that Treville requires additional proof of Richelieu’s interest. Understandable enough – in the bright lights of Paris, protestations made in a country lodge in the heat of the moment must seem ephemeral indeed.

And it’s no hardship for Richelieu to press closer still. Treville’s body is firm and muscled. He runs his hands over it appreciatively. Treville’s no longer young – neither is Richelieu, for that matter – but the Musketeer’s profession keeps him in shape.

Treville breaks the kiss. “All right,” he gasps. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I?” Richelieu says. “I’m not quite sure.” He grinds a slow circle against Treville’s hip, letting the Captain feel exactly how fascinating Richelieu finds him.

Treville groans, head falling back to _thunk_ against the wall. Richelieu watches it, amused. Treville had had the same reaction in the lodge. If this sort of thing becomes a habit, Richelieu’s going to have to invest in some padding. He can’t have Treville giving himself a concussion every time Richelieu presses him up against a wall and has his way with him. Not if it starts happening as frequently as Richelieu wants it to.

“I’m convinced,” Treville hisses. “Now stop, please, before – ”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. He _does_ stop moving, but doesn’t step away; they stay pressed together, body to body. Treville shivers. “Before what?”

Treville licks his lips. “Someone may come.”

“I locked the door.”

“This is someone’s _office_.”

“Yes,” Richelieu admits. “Jussac’s.”

Treville laughs breathlessly. “Your Guardsman’s?”

“It was unoccupied,” Richelieu says with a little shrug, one that does interesting things with them as close together as they are. “I assigned it.”

“And what does Jussac think about your reason for giving him an office?”

“He doesn’t think anything of it.” Richelieu smiles and goes to kiss Treville again. The Captain pulls back as far as he can, still hesitant.

“You’re not afraid?” Treville asks. At Richelieu’s look, Treville elaborates. “You implied that Jussac – knows. What you’ll use this room for. Aren’t you afraid that he’ll betray you?”

“No.” Treville still looks worried; Richelieu sighs and reins in his libido long enough for an explanation. “Jussac’s been in my service since he was eight. His parents were about to pack him off to a monastery when I happened to ride through his village. He’s much happier as a soldier. Claims I saved him from a life of chastity.” Richelieu chuckles. It does interesting things to the places where their two bodies connect.

Treville groans. “Chastity doesn’t seem to be a case where you practice what you preach.”

“It’s harder to avoid as a member of a cloistered order,” Richelieu concedes. “Jussac’s not wrong. More to the point, I gave him an education, and the opportunity to rise from poverty. After his successes on campaign during the last Condé rebellion the King made him a viscount. He’d never betray me.”

“Even over this?” Treville looks away, biting his lip. His erection, still pressing against Richelieu’s hip, wilts noticeably. “There are some things that would test any man’s loyalty.”

“This isn’t one of them.” Richelieu reaches out, tucks a finger under Treville’s chin and uses it to turn the Musketeer back to face him. “Jussac has been assisting me in these matters for twenty years. You may trust him with your life.”

Treville searches Richelieu’s face. Whatever he sees there must convince him, because he relaxes against Richelieu. A teasing note even enters his voice as he says, “That’s farther than I trust you.”

Richelieu tsks with mock gravity. “I shall have to see if I can fix that,” he says, reaching for Treville’s belt.

“Oh no you don’t,” Treville says. He slides one leg between Richelieu’s and twists at the hips, reversing their position with a neat little side-step. Once he’s got Richelieu against the wall, he slides to his knees. “I can’t let you go on doing all the work.”

“You’ll hear no objections from me,” Richelieu gasps, watching in fascination as Treville deftly unbuckles Richelieu’s armor. One day Richelieu will be wearing robes when they do this, and that’s going to be a problem, for more reasons than one. But today he’d dressed as a chevalier, and Treville has no problem getting the important bits out of his way.

The Captain of the Musketeers gives him that devastating grin again, then leans forward and swallows Richelieu down to the root.

Richelieu gasps, and his knees immediately go weak. Treville’s skilled at this. Almost shockingly so. It takes the Cardinal a moment to reach for his control and avoid embarrassing himself. Admittedly, some of his eagerness is due to how long it’s been since he last had a male lover. There just hasn’t been _time_. Between getting Louis to assert his majority, battling Marie de’ Medici’s continual power games, and fighting the various rebellions raised by the nobility, he’s had no effort to spare for his personal life. A string of female mistresses had provided relief without the overhead.

And without the satisfaction. Women simply can’t understand the foreignness of the male body. Treville knows how to work his tongue up Richelieu’s length, how to flick the sensitive place under the head, how to cup the scrotum gently with one hand and roll his palm just so. And the look on Treville’s face as he does it – it’s that look, more than anything else, that has Richelieu rolling his hips forward without thinking, spending himself with a gasp into that warm, wet cavern.

For just a moment, the worry and fear have all fallen away from Treville. He looks young, like a youth just discovering the pleasure the world can bring, eager and headstrong and unashamed. It throws into sharp relief exactly how much fear Treville must live with every day. How much weight he carries around, turning his preference for men into a guilty, sick, shameful secret he can only escape fleetingly.

Something tugs painfully in Richelieu’s chest. He doesn’t know what he did to give Treville that moment of freedom, but he’s going to discover it, and then he’s going to devise a way to make it happen as often as humanly possible.

Treville groans around Richelieu’s length as he swallows – not the first such noise he’s made, and it’s lucky that he’s got something in his mouth to muffle him, because these rooms aren’t soundproof. Richelieu watches him pull back with fond amusement and dab the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth, where a trickle of semen has escaped. He’s gorgeous like this. It’s the same flash as that moment in the forest when he’d smiled at Richelieu. Richelieu is transfixed by it, helplessly astonished, pulled in by a gravity all their own.

Then Treville sees Richelieu watching and flinches, all the shame he’d been so free of a moment before crashing back down on him.

“Don’t,” Richelieu says at once. He can hear the pleading note in his own voice – it’s a weakness, he should do something about that – but it’s less relevant than the look in Treville’s eyes when Richelieu drops to the ground next to Treville and pulls the Captain into his lap.

After the incredible orgasm Treville just gave him, Richelieu doesn’t have the coordination for anything fancy. But it doesn’t require much to fumble with Treville’s clothes in turn and take Treville in hand.

Treville’s achingly hard already and leaking rather a lot. It makes the slide easy, greasing Richelieu’s palm. Treville moans. Richelieu shushes him, stroking Treville once, twice more; his other hand slides up to tease an erect, pebbled nipple, and he files away the jerk Treville gives for later reference. Another stroke is all it takes. Treville tries to cry out. Richelieu, prepared, claps his hand over his mouth. Then Treville’s coming with a full-body shudder.

Richelieu catches as much of it as he can in his hand, wiping it – and the floor – off with the extra handkerchief he’d started carrying around in hopes of just such an event. Treville seems content to slump against him while he does it, heaving deep breaths and staring at the ceiling.

“Come on,” Richelieu says when he’s done, giving Treville a gentle nudge. “On your feet. We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

Treville groans again, this time in frustration, but does stumble to a standing position. Richelieu joins him and hands the Musketeer his belt, which had gotten kicked under Jussac’s desk at some point. It’s a sturdy desk; one of these days he might bend Treville over it, if he can teach him to be quiet enough.

On second thought, no. Richelieu likes Treville noisy. He’ll just have to save it for his own desk at the Palais-Cardinal.

The thought puts a smile on his face. He leans forward thoughtlessly for a kiss.

“What are you doing?” Treville demands, startled, stopping Richelieu with a palm to his chest.

Richelieu blinks. “I was going to kiss you, my dear.”

“But – ” Treville blinks at him, visibly confused. “But I just…” he gestures, clumsily, with the hand not holding Richelieu at bay. It takes the Cardinal a moment to process this pantomime. Then he chuckles, warmly, amused both by the sentiment and the way Treville still avoids naming what they’ve done. The Captain had just taken Richelieu’s cock down his throat, worked him to orgasm and swallowed his seed, but heaven forbid he actually speak the words aloud.

“Yes,” Richelieu agrees, and gently moves Treville’s hand out of the way, taking his prize.

When he pulls back, Treville is flushed, cheeks red. “Delicious,” Richelieu pronounces, licking his lips theatrically.

Treville flushes harder. “Some people don’t like that,” he mutters.

“I’m not some people,” Richelieu says.

“I’m starting to get that.”

“Keep it in mind,” Richelieu advises him. “It’s going to be relevant.”

Echoing faintly through the walls of the Louvre, the bells of Notre Dame ring the hour. Treville jumps, then swears.

“I had no idea it was so late. I’m expected back at the Musketeers’ garrison to lead training.”

“I thought you ran training sessions in the evenings during the summer months?”

“Now why am I not surprised that you know that?” Treville finishes buckling his sword-belt and shakes his head. “With so many new recruits I’m having to run double practices.”

“Good thing you’re getting a bigger practice yard, then,” Richelieu observes with creditable neutrality.

Treville, to Richelieu’s surprise, laughs. “Oh, go on, say you told me so. I know you want to.” He shrugs. “Yes, the space will come in handy. I just wanted to make sure that the one thing wasn’t contingent on the other.”

“Would it be so terrible if it were?” Richelieu asks softly. “Would you hate it so much if I wanted to give you a gift?”

Treville sighs. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he says. “I feel dirty enough about this as it is.”

Richelieu doesn’t know what to say to that. Simply telling Treville not to feel ashamed won’t have any effect. Shame isn’t an emotion Richelieu has any experience with; for one reason or another, he’s never felt it, only ever contempt for those who would make him feel it. It’s odd that Treville would be the more Catholic of the two of them when it comes to this. Odd, but somehow appropriate.

Treville offers him a crooked grin. “Later, then,” he says, heading for the door.

“Until later,” Richelieu agrees, watching him go.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Two weeks after Christine-Marie’s letter reaches Paris, the Savoyan ambassador presents himself at the Palais-Cardinal with dispatches from the Duchy’s capitol in Turin. Among them is the copy of the letter sent to Spain. The one that indicates Savoy’s willingness to deal.

Richelieu knows what it says. Actually, _his_ personal copy had arrived three days ago, courtesy of Christine-Marie. Her copy includes a few codicils that have, unsurprisingly, been withheld from the French version. The final version brought by the ambassador is slightly altered from the copy Richelieu had received, indicating that edits have been ongoing, but nothing of significance has changed.

Richelieu gives a few additional orders, then goes to the Louvre to wait upon the King.

“And Savoy is actually sending this letter to Spain?” Louis demands for the thirteenth time – not that Richelieu is counting – when Richelieu reaches the end and folds up the paper. He’s read aloud the version edited for France, not the less-redacted one the Duchess had sent him. There are too many people in the throne room to risk revealing how highly placed France’s spies are in the Savoyan court.

“They wouldn’t have sent a copy to us otherwise,” Marie de’ Medici replies sharply. “Do keep up, Louis.”

Richelieu keeps his face still. The Queen Mother’s continued attempts to undermine the King are a problem, one he dearly wishes he could resolve. Unfortunately, he lacks proof of anything beyond a slightly contentious maternal relationship, however much his instincts scream that she’s got something bigger in mind than a few offhand comments.

“They might have meant it as a warning,” Anne speaks up. “Perhaps they wished to see if we would make a counter-offer before sending it to Spain.”

“I think they _do_ wish to solicit a counter-offer,” Richelieu says to Louis. “However, I also believe they are sending this letter to Spain at once, rather than waiting.”

“Why would they do that?” Louis asks.

“To obtain better terms from both sides, your Majesty.”

“But why do they need different terms at all?” the King demands plaintively. “What’s wrong with the terms they already have with us?”

Marie de’ Medici rolls her eyes. Anne shoots her a dirty look, then says, “Perhaps they think they can get a better deal.”

“From _Spain?_ ” Now it’s Louis’ turn to roll his eyes. “Who would want to be allied with _them_?”

“I’m sure Savoy doesn’t,” Richelieu cuts in, lying through his teeth. “Probably they just think they can get a better deal if they flirt a bit with the other side.”

Louis purses his lips disapprovingly. “And are we planning to do something about that?”

Richelieu nods reassuringly. “The matter is in hand.” He hesitates. “If your Majesty would permit, the details are rather sensitive… perhaps, in private…”

“Oh, I don’t need to know.” Louis waves a hand dismissively. “Just handle it, will you? Discreetly.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“Ah… not at the moment, your Majesty. There may, in the future, be the need for some men. Soldiers.”

Marie de’ Medici is nodding her head approvingly. Anne frowns, then turns to Richelieu.

“We’re not planning to invade Savoy, are we?” she asks, a note of disapproval making itself heard in her voice.

“Of course not, your Majesty.” Richelieu bows. “It’s just that soldiers make excellent couriers, when the roads are dangerous.”

“Ah. Yes,” Louis agrees, distracted. He’s probably already imagining the fight he’s about to have to mediate between his mother and his wife. “Well, anything you need. I’m sure Captain Treville will be glad to work with you. Won’t you, Captain?”

Thus singled out, Treville steps forward and delivers a bow of his own. “I will of course be glad to help the Cardinal in any way he requires,” Treville says, managing to sound almost genuine.

“Splendid, splendid. Well, keep me informed. Anne? Mother?” Without waiting for an answer, the King sweeps out. Richelieu bows along with everyone else. All he sees of the Queens’ departure is their shoes going by.

“Well,” Treville remarks from somewhere in front of Richelieu. Richelieu straightens to find them more or less face to face. “I suppose you’d better start by telling me the whole situation.”

Over Treville’s shoulder, Jussac is hovering discreetly. At Richelieu’s inquiring glance, Jussac gives a significant nod. Something of importance. A folded letter – Richelieu’s eyebrows rise at the sight of the handwriting, directing the note, once again, to _my dear brother._ Another message so soon? There must be more to this than it seems.

Glancing back towards Treville, Richelieu makes a snap decision. “Follow me,” he says.

Treville does. His eyebrows go up when Richelieu leads him out of the Louvre entirely, and stay there when Richelieu waves Treville into his carriage. “Going to take me off into the woods and have me shot?” he asks lightly, while his eyes make the question more serious: this matter is going to involve no small amount of Richelieu’s way of dealing with things, and Treville has never made any secret of his disapproval for those.

“You’re welcome to walk to the Palais-Cardinal, if you prefer,” Richelieu says acerbically, instead of asking the question he wants to ask, which is roughly along the lines of: _really?_ It’s all well and good to be honorable, but not when it crosses over into stupidity. And the jibe about wilderness shootings is below the belt. Treville has made it clear that he doesn’t approve of Richelieu’s methods, but Richelieu had thought the Musketeer understood that the Cardinal reserved extreme measures solely for enemies of France.

After a charged moment, Treville shrugs, which conveys an apology as well as if he’d spoken it, and climbs into the carriage.

Richelieu takes the letter from Jussac and climbs in behind him. “Not yet,” he says, holding up a finger to forestall Treville’s inevitable questions. “Wait until we are safely in my office.”

Treville closes his mouth and nods. Richelieu turns his attention to Jussac’s letter, or rather, the Duchess’.

As soon as they pull up to the Palais-Cardinal, Treville swings out of the carriage, impatient as a boy. Richelieu exits the carriage at a more sedate pace, but gives in to the unspoken urgency rolling off the Musketeer and leads Treville straight inside. They pass straight through the court and down the long corridor to Richelieu’s office. There are no other rooms off the corridor; they all open from the court. Richelieu’s office is designed for secrecy. Sound passes into it from the courtyard, but what is said – or done – within the room will remain there.  

They enter the office at the end of the corridor. Richelieu leads Treville not to his desk, placed against the far wall beside the door leading to Richelieu’s private chambers, but to the map-table in the center of the room. Spread over it is a large and detailed map of France, Savoy, and Spain. Emplacements and fortifications are clearly marked, as are roads, streams, and paths of communication.

“This is incredible,” Treville says in astonishment, looking at the detailed plans laid out on Richelieu’s map. His lips purse in a silent whistle.

“Thank you,” Richelieu says courteously. “Now. As you heard just now, it seems that Savoy is once again considering whether continued neutrality is in their best interests.”

“The Duke’s Chancellor Cluzet is well known to be a Spanish partisan,” Treville says.

Richelieu snorts. “He’s their spy.”

Treville raises an eyebrow. “You and he must get on well.”

“Like a house on fire,” Richelieu says, meaning it precisely.

Treville’s smile makes Richelieu’s pulse leap – that sudden flash of teeth which call up unforgettable memories of the forests around France, a frantic ride on horseback, and three tense days that had ended with blood and sex. “I trust you’re the fire.”

“I try,” Richelieu manages through a dry throat. He clears it impatiently and proceeds. “Now, as you just heard, Savoy’s latest correspondence with the Spanish court – in which I see Cluzet’s hand – had a strong expression of interest in an alliance. Stronger than I am at all comfortable with. Thanks to the activity of our spies, I am also privy to several codicils in the copy of the letter Savoy sent to Spain that were _not_ present in our copy.”

Treville frowns. “That’s hardly a surprise, but I confess, I don’t understand why they would send us a copy at all. Even a redacted one.”

“The charitable interpretation is that they are giving us fair warning of their intentions.”

“And the uncharitable interpretation?”

“That they’re holding the threat of Spain above our head to wring concessions from us. My spies tell me they’re unhappy with the French fortifications along their border, and also with our current trade terms – the tariffs are not favorable to their merchants.”

“And I’m assuming you don’t want to lower the taxes.”

“The army would starve in a month,” Richelieu says grimly. Then he slants a look sideways at Treville. “The Musketeers in two weeks.”

Treville gives him a half grin. “Should have thought of that before you built me that new barracks.”

“I could adopt a plan of austerity,” Richelieu agrees, mock-seriously. “Or I could outmaneuver the Savoyans and keep our trade terms the same.” He puts up his eyebrows. “Which do you think I should do, Captain?”

“I think you’ve already made up your mind,” Treville says. He shrugs. “And I don’t like the idea of giving in any more than you do.”

“Which brings us to our current state.” Richelieu gestures, drawing Treville’s attention to the map. “The extra codicils in Spain’s copy of the letter include a promise to send further details of Savoy’s defenses along their border with France. And it requests a military commitment from Spain.”

“ _Morbleu_ ,” Treville swears. “So much for a simple little financial dispute.”

Richelieu nods. “Savoy’s proposal is carefully buried under a lot of double talk and allusions, but the core of it is this: Savoy will ally with Spain if Spain supplies the troops Victor Amadeus needs to get back the land he gave up in the Treaty of 1601. In exchange, the Spanish will get favorable trade terms.”

“Which will give King Philip the funding he needs to keep sending troops to that trouble in the Holy Roman Empire.”

“Precisely.” Richelieu shakes his head. “I’m not happy about that, either; the Hapsburgs have far too much power in Europe… we may need to involve ourselves one day. But for the moment, our troubles are closer to home.”

Treville frowns. “Savoy’s proposal to Spain bodes ill for more than just France,” he points out. “Half of Europe would be in an uproar if they found out about it.”

“Exactly,” Richelieu says smugly. “If we could intercept that letter, it would be very embarrassing to Savoy. The threat of its exposure would force them to reaffirm their commitment to us. A blow to Spain, better trade terms for _our_ merchants, and Savoy properly subdued. Three for one.”

“Ambitious,” Treville says carefully. “Certainly a worthy goal.”

“Thank you.”

“But there’s one big problem. We don’t know the route of their courier. Our agreement with Savoy gives them the right to pass through France any way they choose. It’s an awful lot of distance to picket.”

“Who says we don’t know the route of the courier?” Richelieu picks up another series of markers. Referring back to the letter Jussac had handed him on his way out of the Louvre, he lays them out in a neat line, starting from Turin and stretching to Madrid.

Treville’s jaw drops. “Just how highly placed _is_ this spy of yours?”

“It is Christine Marie, the King’s sister.”

Treville stares at him.

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. “Do you really find that so surprising? She’s a _Fille de France_ by birth, and surely everyone knows she’s less than thrilled to have ended a Sovereign Duchess instead of a Queen.”

“No,” Treville says slowly. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Then close your mouth. Now, if the courier sets out the day after tomorrow – ”

“What surprises me,” Treville interrupts, “is that you told me her identity.”

Richelieu looks at him blankly. “You asked.”

“No, actually, I didn’t ask. I just observed that he – she, rather – must be highly placed.”

“Well.” Richelieu shrugs. “It was clear that you _wanted_ to know.”

“Lots of people must want to know things you know,” Treville points out. “I assume you don’t just go around telling them.”

“No, of course not.” Richelieu is beginning to be impatient. “What of it?”

“You told me.”

“Yes, thank you, I was here.”

“You _told me._ You gave me the identity of your spy in Savoy. The most highly placed informant you have, I’ll wager, since I doubt the Duke is turning on himself. A major state secret that endangers the life of the King’s sister herself. And you just – told me. Because you thought I wanted to know.”

Now Richelieu’s confused. “Are you saying you _didn’t_ want to know?”

“Of course I wanted to know!” Treville explodes. “What I don’t understand is why _you told me!”_

“I’m not sure what’s so hard to grasp about this,” Richelieu says carefully, watching Treville’s face. Confusion, dismay, and distress are all visible there. Richelieu has a bad feeling he knows why, and tries to brace himself against the attack. “You wished to know, so I told you.”

“Is this another form of bribery?” Treville demands. “I couldn’t be bought with equipment and a new barracks, so you’ll buy me with knowledge?” He looms into Richelieu’s personal space, all imposition and anger. “I’m not your whore,” he hisses.

And there it is. “Oh, yes, I see,” Richelieu says cuttingly, pushed into it. “It couldn’t just be that I might _trust_ you. I must be looking for a hold over you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” Richelieu says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The calculating automaton, always looking for an angle – ”

“Yes!” Treville shouts. “Yes, you are, and don’t you even try to deny it!”

“Not to mention I’m apparently incapable of separating passion and business. There’s a potential major crisis underway for France, but I’m spending it trying to put a leash on you. Never mind that, if that were my goal, all I would have had to have done would have been to _keep my mouth shut and ride back to Paris_ – ”

Treville flinches.

Richelieu stops talking, immediately contrite.

“Richelieu,” Treville sighs.

“I didn’t mean that,” the Cardinal says, too late. _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thinks. As if he doesn’t know exactly how afraid of discovery Treville is. As if he doesn’t know that that’s the worst possible angle to attack him on.

“You did mean it.” Treville pauses, then says slowly, “And I’m glad you did.”

Richelieu watches him warily. “You are?”

“You didn’t mean to say it, but you did anyway. Which means it’s the truth.”

“Do you often think I’m lying to you?” Richelieu asks, not sure he wants the answer.

Treville shrugs wryly. “Yes.”

There seems to be nothing to say to that. Richelieu looks away, back to the map table, avoiding Treville’s gaze.

“Hey.” A warm hand appears on Richelieu’s shoulder, turning him sideways. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Thank you for telling me about the Duchess.”

“You’re welcome,” Richelieu says automatically.

“I know I provoked you into snapping at me just now. It’s just – ” Treville sighs, looking rueful. “You keep surprising me,” he admits. “You’re never quite what I expect.”

“What do you expect?” Richelieu asks, not sure he wants the answer.

“The great Cardinal Richelieu,” Treville says musingly. “Twice as smart as a mortal man. Richer than God. A finger in every pie, a spy at every peep-hole… If he doesn’t know something, it isn’t worth knowing. If he doesn’t own someone, they aren’t worth owning. And you’ve wanted to own me since the moment I assumed command of the Musketeers. Don’t even try to deny it,” he adds, though Richelieu had had no intention of doing so. “You wanted to bribe me, then you wanted to ally with me, then – when neither of those worked – you probably wanted to have me killed.”

Richelieu doesn’t shiver; doesn’t give away how much that simple statement disturbs him. But he wants to.

He thinks about it some nights. How close he’d been to giving the order. At the time it had seemed like such a little thing. An obstacle to France removed. Now that he knows what it could have cost him, it’s not such a little thing anymore.

“And then we ride out for what’s supposed to be a simple little hunting trip, and my old lover hands you my life on a silver platter.” Treville sighs. “What am I supposed to think?”

“I told you that I had no intention of blackmailing you,” Richelieu says in a low voice.

“There are different kinds of blackmail,” Treville replies, equally quietly. “You wanted to own me; now you do.”

“After what I told you about myself?” Richelieu asks. “What I’ve done with you?” Richelieu’s been an enthusiastic participant in their affairs – indeed, the instigator. Has Treville forgotten that their liaison places Richelieu in danger, too? That Treville could betray Richelieu just as easily as Richelieu could betray him?

But Treville shakes his head. “So you get me to warm your bed on the side. Two for one, right? Your usual modus operandi.”

Richelieu grips the map-table hard enough that the edges dig into his palm. The small pain focuses him, helps him think. “This isn’t that,” he says, trying to make himself understood. He’d thought – but how could he have expected Treville to speak his language? “In the hunting-lodge, things changed,” he tries to explain. “Yes, Gasteau handed me your life – but he also handed me the key to your character. You fascinate me.” Richelieu lets go of the table and shrugs, a little helplessly. There’s just no better way to put it than that. Treville is a puzzle to him, even now. Everyone else Richelieu’s pursued has given themselves to him easily. Because everyone has a price. Whether it’s money, power, resources or something else doesn’t matter. Richelieu can pay it.

Except Treville has no price. Treville has said it twice now: _I won’t be your whore._ And Richelieu doesn’t know what to do with that. He just _wants_. But he can’t seem to express that in any other way than as an exchange.

Treville shakes his head. “I don’t know what it is you claim to see in me, but you’ve made it clear enough that you desire me. And for a man in your position, I should think the best kind of bedmate is one you have a hold over.”

“Don’t you realize you have a hold on me too?” Richelieu asks, and a pleading note slips out of his control to make its way into his voice. Or does Treville think that Richelieu sleeps with every man to cross his path? It’s a risk even for him. A calculated one, a minimized one, but a risk nonetheless. This is one secret that Richelieu can gain no satisfaction from keeping, but every lover he gives it to endangers him unspeakably.

There is no higher level of confidence Richelieu can repose in someone. Given that, given what Richelieu’s already entrusted Treville with, the identity of the King’s spy in Savoy is decidedly second-rate. Treville doesn’t need it to destroy France’s foreign policy. He could simply destroy Richelieu, and that would be that.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” Treville admits. “I’m not like you. I don’t know how to ruin a man with a single piece of information. Not even information like this. Given our history, who would believe me? They’d all take it for spite.”

“If you said it loudly enough, one of my enemies would find you,” Richelieu says, trying to make him see. “No, I’m not like you. You haven’t got any enemies worth mentioning. I do. Why, you wouldn’t even have to be telling the truth. They’d seize on it anyway.”

“So your life is in my hands?” Treville smiles, clearly joking.

Richelieu isn’t joking. “Yes,” he says.

This seems to stop Treville short. He looks as Richelieu in astonishment, as if he’s just now realizing how serious the matter is, the extent of the power he wields over the Cardinal. “Oh,” he says, faintly startled.

Richelieu takes a step closer. Treville turns slightly to face him head on, his back to the map-table.

This is different. Richelieu doesn’t know how, but somehow, this knowledge means something to Treville. When it comes to their liaison, Treville seems even more attuned to the subtle complexity of power dynamics than Richelieu. He needs to believe that they are truly, completely in balance. Or this is the result.

Richelieu says, “You could betray me any time you chose.”

“Wouldn’t you betray me right back?” Treville asks, slightly breathless. He leans back against the table. It’s sturdy; it takes his weight without issue.

“Never.”

It startles Richelieu. He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to say what he’d thought had been the reality: that, if push comes to shove, if Treville is determined to make them enemies, Richelieu will act decisively, and destroy Treville to protect himself.

He hadn’t meant to say _never_. And yet he has the unshakeable conviction that he isn’t lying.

“No matter if I’d done it to you?” Treville presses.

“No matter if,” Richelieu says, feeling the truth of the words even as they leave his tongue.

He’s floundering. This is something new: something he’s never had to deal with before. He has absolutely no idea how to proceed.

Treville draws in a breath, a flush creeping up his neck.

“It’s somewhere to start from, at any rate,” the Captain says. Then he reaches for the Cardinal.

Richelieu can’t refuse such an open invitation. He steps closer, leaning in to capture the Musketeer’s mouth in a warm kiss. This, at least, he understands. The language of flesh is the one they have in common. A slight twist of Richelieu’s hips lets him press a thigh between Treville’s legs, and rock up against the hardness he finds waiting for him there.

Treville gives a bitten-off moan, hands coming up to press against Richelieu’s shoulders. He can’t seem to make up his mind if he wants to push Richelieu away or pull him closer. He ends up just holding the Cardinal in place, and Richelieu responds with a careful, slow roll of his hips that make Treville gasp and his head fall back. The sight of the career soldier exposing his neck in such a way is unexpectedly erotic. Richelieu can’t resist leaning forward and licking a long stripe up that vulnerable flesh, feeling Treville’s throat work as he swallows, pulse leaping under Richelieu’s tongue.

“Richelieu,” Treville gasps. One hand leaves Richelieu’s shoulder and starts fumbling with his sword-belt.

Richelieu permits this for as long as it takes to get the buckles undone. Treville’s sword-belt, opened, slides down to hang low on his hips. It’s prevented from falling further by the map-table behind Treville, and by Richelieu in front of him. Richelieu considers stepping back to allow it to fall. He thinks of taking Treville back through the second door, the one that leads from Richelieu’s office to his private chambers. He thinks of stripping Treville methodically, of laying him out on Richelieu’s bed, the way Richelieu has wanted since the beginning. Of claiming Treville in the most thorough way possible.

He thinks of all of that, then discards it in a moment. Instead he reaches down between them to push his own robes aside, bats Treville’s hand away, and wraps one thin, long-fingered hand around them both.

“God,” Treville moans at that first touch. When Richelieu strokes upward, pressing his thumb down over the head of Treville’s cock, the Captain just keens wordlessly.

Richelieu watches his face the entire time, intently. He varies the speed and pressure of his hand by what evokes the most shameless responses from Treville. It ends up being a bit slower and lighter than Richelieu likes himself, but the look on Treville’s face, and the sound of his bitten-off moans and blasphemies, all more than makes up for it. Richelieu drinks them all in. Feels the pleasure rising like a wave within him. Treville’s cries take on a new note of urgency; he presses his face against Richelieu’s neck to muffle himself. A final twist of Richelieu’s wrist and Treville shakes apart against him, coming warm and wet where their flesh meets. The noise he makes – the vibrations pressed into Richelieu’s skin, the cry that’s a mangled form of Richelieu’s own name – is all it takes for the Cardinal to join him.

Treville slumps into Richelieu, breathing hard. Richelieu lets the map-table take half their weight, and rests his cheek against Treville’s hair as he waits for his own breathing to return to normal.

After a few moments Richelieu withdraws his hand from between them, wiping it, and them, on his handkerchief. Gently he rearranges Treville’s uniform and buckles his sword-belt again. Then he does up own robes, and draws Treville back into a loose embrace.

“You know I wouldn’t ever betray you like that,” Treville says after a few quiet moments, tucking his chin against Richelieu’s shoulder.

“Do I?” Richelieu asks softly, stroking gently down Treville’s back, playing with the soft hairs at the base of his skull. He should know it – should have been sure of it before he ever began this liaison – but he doesn’t. Treville shakes all of his certainties apart, and Richelieu finds himself rushing in where he should fear to tread.

“Hey.” Treville pulls back slightly, taking Richelieu by the shoulders and staring intently at him. “Of course you do. You’re the great Cardinal, remember? That masterful judge of character? You know perfectly well I wouldn’t. Not over this, not with this. Whatever else may happen between us, _this_ stays secret.”

Richelieu smiles, a real, open, relieved smile of the sort he rarely shows anyone. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Treville smiles back. “Now stop standing there looking guilty and let me look at this courier’s route,” he says, suddenly brusque. “You _did_ want my advice on that, right? Not just my body?”

“I want every part of you,” Richelieu says, kissing him. More sincerity. It’s a day for truths.

“Mmmrph,” Treville says irrelevantly, looking everywhere but the Cardinal, embarrassed.

Reluctantly the Cardinal lets Treville go. His ability to read Treville seems to be woefully poor, but he’s starting to sense when he’s pushed too far. And it always seems to happen when he speaks of softer things.

That shame again. Richelieu is coming to truly hate that shame, the way it colors Treville’s voice and lines his body whenever Richelieu pulls him in, holds him close, dares to touch their lips together. Treville is, if anything, _more_ ashamed in those moments than when they engage in carnal congress. As if daring to show affection is more of a sin than the act of fornication.

One day Richelieu will find the key to it, whatever convinced Treville so thoroughly of his shame. One day he’ll unravel it all. But it won’t be today, and with the pressing matter of Savoy’s courier before him, Richelieu reluctantly sets the matter aside. Says, “Yes, I do want your opinion on the route.”

“Good,” Treville says in relief. “I’m on much firmer ground there. Now.” He spins around to face the map-table, though not before Richelieu catches the light dusting of red across his cheekbones. A similar blush is just visible on the back of his neck.

“You are deliciously firm in all ways,” Richelieu disagrees, unable to resist sliding a proprietary hand over Treville’s arse. He may have chosen to delay this particular pleasure, but Richelieu still has plans for that portion of Treville’s anatomy.

Treville jumps slightly. “Do you mind?” And Richelieu must be getting better at reading him, because underneath the slight exasperation, and the even slighter fondness, is a lurking tension and fear.

Richelieu drops his hand immediately. “Not at all, my dear,” he says, keeping his tone light. He leans into Treville to look down on the map, casual, but remaining in contact. He can feel the tension in Treville’s frame, feel as it slowly relaxes when Richelieu makes no further approach to intimacy.

“Well, I mind,” Treville says finally. Sincerely. Then, trying to play it off, he says, “What if someone comes in?”

“Everyone here is loyal to me,” Richelieu reassures, choosing to take this at face value. “Besides, we’d hear them coming long before they opened the door. The corridor is an echo chamber; I can hear everything that goes on in the court.”

“I trust they can’t hear what goes on in here,” Treville says, cheeks delightfully pink.

“One way only, I assure you.”

“Well, that’s good. But I’m afraid I can’t think with you doing that.”

“Sorry,” Richelieu says, not really sorry at all. But he takes a regretful step back. Lovely as this interlude has been, the matter of the Savoyan courier _is_ of vital national importance. “Please, go on.”

Treville shoots him a doubtful look. Richelieu returns his most innocent gaze.

 _One day_ , he thinks. When it’s safe. When Treville won’t feel shame over the act – won’t think of it in terms of rolling over for Richelieu.

It may take a while. But there are plenty of other things they can do until then. It will hardly be a hardship to enjoy Treville’s talented mouth in the meanwhile, and it has so far not seemed as if Treville has many complaints about Richelieu’s proficiency in that arena. When they do advance to true sex, it will be all the more enjoyable for the delay.

After a moment, Treville snorts. “All right,” he says. He takes a deep breath and turns back to the map-table. “Now. This is odd.”

“What’s odd about it?” Richelieu asks, schooling his mind firmly to business.

“This route. Really, going overland at all is foolish. It’s far faster to go by sea. At least when the sea-lanes are clear.”

“But they often go overland,” Richelieu points out. “The Treaty of 1601 explicitly guarantees this right.”

“Why?”

“I suspect it’s because of what it allows them to do along the way.” Richelieu indicates the route again. “The fastest route, assuming one travels overland, is to go southwest through Toulouse. But the Savoyan courier often begins by going _north_ west.”

Treville lets his fingers walk along the black flags. His eyebrows shoot up. “Blois?”

“I’m very much afraid so.” The black flag in Blois is striped with green, and situated right over the Queen Mother’s palatial chateau.

Treville whistles. “Can you prove it?”

“If I could, do you think Marie de’ Medici would be at court right now?”

“I’m about to ask you something that you’ll probably take offense at.”

Richelieu raises his eyebrows. “All right…”

“Can you really not prove it? Or can you just not prove it to your satisfaction?”

It takes a moment, but then Richelieu grasps the implication. “I assure you, I am not emulating the mistakes of Cluzet,” he says coolly.

“Right.” Treville turns back to the table. “But you’d like to get that proof, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Richelieu says. “But the Queen Mother is careful. And she is acquainted with many of my spies.”

“Because they were her spies first.”

“Unfortunately,” Richelieu sighs. He owes Marie de’ Medici for his original introduction to the French court during her regency; it’s a shame he should be forced to work against her now. It smacks of ingratitude, and that’s a charge Richelieu has always worked hard to avoid. No one is loyal to a man they think will betray them. But the Queen Mother had been then much as she is now, which is to say politically inept, corrupt, power-hungry, self-aggrandizing, and so shortsighted it’s a wonder Louis had had a country left to rule by the time he had asserted his majority. Richelieu had had to work against her almost from day one. At first it had been all he could do to curb her worst excesses and moderate the fallout from her ill-conceived schemes. When he’d finally gotten enough strings in his hands to get Louis settled on the throne, the gloves had come off.

The only thing Marie de’ Medici had been any good at had been the intelligence-gathering side of things. Fortunately, spies are not generally known for their loyalty to anything besides power and money. Suborning them had been easy, and a critical part of getting Louis out from under her regency. _Keeping_ them suborned… Richelieu has only a few operatives he would truly trust with this, and Marie would spot them all in a heartbeat. Even Milady.

“Well.” Treville sighs. “There’s nothing I can do about that. Spying isn’t my department.”

“I understand.”

“Fortunately soldiering is. I assume you’d prefer to wait until the courier has passed through Blois…”

“It’s unlikely that the Queen Mother will give him anything that might incriminate her, but I can’t afford to overlook the possibility.”

“Of course not. So.” Treville traces the route from where it drops down southward from Blois. “This time of year, of course they won’t attempt the Gulf. But they’ll be passing through Gascony.”

“I hadn’t thought I’d wait that long. It’s four hundred kilometers from Blois to Bordeaux.”

“Four hundred kilometers of relatively populated area,” Treville counters. “Better to wait for the wildlands.” His fingers slide down the coast, then stop, tapping the map thoughtfully. “That Cahusac of yours is from Mont-de-Marsan, isn’t he?”

“The surrounding environs,” Richelieu agrees.

“I thought I recognized that accent. Send him there. He’ll know the area like the back of his hand, and no one he meets would dream of betraying him.” Treville’s lips twitch. “Unless he puts on a Paris dialect, of course.”

Richelieu pauses. Is Treville… joking with him? Flirting slightly? It seems somewhat backwards to put the flirting after the sex. But this entire relationship has been backwards from the start. How many affairs start with one party determined to murder the other, after all?

He glances over cautiously. There does seem to be a certain suppressed mirth in the Musketeer’s face.

Gambling, Richelieu puts on his most precise Parisian accent. “I suppose you think I should stay away,” he says with great hauteur.

“Oh, definitely,” Treville says lightly. “Nothing sticks out in people’s memories like a Parisian out of their natural habitat.” And he smiles.

Richelieu lets himself smile back. The atmosphere is tentative, but encouraging. A quick fumble is one thing, but this teasing almost suggests… comfort. He likes it. He thinks he could get used to it.

“Send Cahusac and any other Gascons in your service,” Treville repeats. He slides his finger slightly north of Mont-de-Marsan. “Hereabouts should do it.”

Richelieu leans over, peering more closely at the map. There’s nothing under Treville’s finger. The area is all untamed forest, with Mont-de-Marsan at least two days ride away. The Cardinal looks up and raises an eyebrow.

Treville’s smile becomes an outright grin. “Trust a Gascon, Cardinal. If you want to stage an ambush, there’s no better place than the wildlands.”

“Well,” Richelieu says, considering. “I suppose Cahusac _is_ due a vacation.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a warning in this part for discussions of hate crimes and hate speech. It's in the past - Treville recounts a memory from his childhood - and not described in detail. Still, read safely! If you need to avoid it, skip down to the first section break, and just keep in mind that being gay in pre-Napoleon France was extremely dangerous, and Treville had some direct experience with that in his youth.

Richelieu sets the operation in motion, dispatching Cahusac and a double handful of Guards, several of whom are native to Gascony. Then he puts the matter out of his mind for a time. Savoy is important, but so are several other issues pressing in France. He turns his attention to those.

On the personal front, matters improve considerably. Something in his last conversation with Treville must have struck home. The Captain seems to have finally concluded that Richelieu is sincere in his wishes for something more than a servant. As the construction of the Musketeers’ new facilities goes onwards, Treville starts to come by the Palais-Cardinal more often. He always comes armed with an excuse: something Richelieu has done or decreed lately with regard to the new facilities which is absolutely wrong. The Captain then proceeds to harangue Richelieu about whatever it is in loud tones – at least, until everyone not on overnight duty has gone home.

One day it’s the well. Why do they need a well, Treville demands to know? And why did Richelieu have it placed against the east wall, for goodness’ sake, when any lackwit soldier could see that it ought to be located behind the barracks? Treville expounds at length about siege theory, only pausing when Richelieu’s servants and Guards come in and out of his office to take orders and drop off new intelligence. Richelieu expands his spy network in Spain with a few well-placed bribes and one piece of blackmail. Treville leaves shortly before midnight. The well is already being moved.

Two days later the Captain’s back, furious over the arrangement of the barracks. Richelieu is having them modeled on the barracks behind the Palais-Cardinal, where his Red Guards are quartered. Treville subjects the Cardinal to a two-hour rant about how different the Guards are from the Musketeers, and what this means in terms of their living quarters. Richelieu listens with half an ear, solves three diplomatic crises in the south of France, and then distracts Treville by taking advantage of his office’s soundproofing. The barracks stay the same.

Days slip away, then weeks. Richelieu finds himself almost comfortable. It’s a new feeling. He’s used to a near-constant drive, endless focused ambition striving for his lifelong goal. He’s still busy, but somehow the element of desperate, frantic stress has gone out of the day-to-day reality of governing France. The king remains occasionally petulant, the regions continue to bicker like ill-behaved children, and the treasury, though less bankrupt, is hardly flush. But Richelieu finds new reserves of patience and serenity as he navigates these shoals.

Treville seems to have a never-ending parade of reasons to complain, which always require him to arrive at the Palais-Cardinal shortly after dinner, and absolutely demand his presence there until shortly before midnight. With the now-familiar Gascon accent sliding over his ears, Richelieu finds better solutions, new opportunities, and unexpected allies. Even when Richelieu’s work spills over past midnight and there’s no time for physical intimacy – which happens four days out of five, alas – simply having Treville present has an extraordinary impact on Richelieu’s mood.

It makes no sense, but there it is.

Tonight, some two months after their return from the fateful hunting-lodge, Richelieu is determined to finish early enough to enjoy some time alone with his lover. He’s just wrapped up an issue between two discontented nobles – that ended up having really been about Crown fishing rights, of all things – which had kept him too busy for enjoyment for two full weeks. The last reports are trickling in, his operatives are taking some well-deserved leave, and Richelieu is tentatively optimistic for two or three early nights in a row.

A knock on the door heralds Jussac’s arrival, with the late servant at his heels to clear away the last things and bank the fire. “Today’s report,” Jussac says, handing it over. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

Richelieu skims the report rapidly. It’s the daily summary of routine activities – the Guards’ practice, routine check-ins from those spies who are supposed to check in, updates from his steward on the status of Richelieu’s estates. Nothing stands out, and Richelieu shakes his head. “Nothing, I thank you.”

“Good evening, then, your Eminence,” Jussac says. “Bernajoux is taking over now.”

“Yes. Good night.”

Jussac bows and withdraws. The servant, finished with her tasks, does likewise.

“Twenty years,” Treville murmurs.

“Hmm?” Richelieu looks up from the dull report he’s skimming. There are three more on the pile he’s set himself to read tonight, after which he’s promised himself a considerably more enjoyable activity.

“You told me once that Jussac has been with you for twenty years,” Treville repeats. “That’s a long time.”

“Oh. Yes,” Richelieu agrees, gaze drifting back to the paper.

“Did you ever consider him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you ever consider forming an arrangement with him?”

Richelieu blinks. Then he sets down the paper in the _done_ pile – really, he’s gotten everything he could get out of that particular report already – and turns in his chair to face Treville. “No,” he says guardedly. “Why do you ask?”

Treville shrugs. He’d finished his rant for today some time ago – on the topic of the fittings Richelieu had chosen for the armory – and now is sprawled over the settee pushed against the wall, gazing abstractedly into the fire. And, apparently, speculating on Richelieu’s relationships with his Guards. “I just thought,” the Captain says slowly, “since Jussac knows what you prefer… and is comfortable with it…”

“Jussac has no inclination to judge,” Richelieu says. “But he doesn’t share our preferences.”

“Oh,” Treville says. “I guess I assumed…”

“It’s a reasonable enough conclusion,” Richelieu agrees. Not many people without their particular urges would understand them, much less be inclined to condone them. But Jussac is one of those rare souls who takes people as he finds them, and he has been known to debate Matthew 7:1 extensively with those others of Richelieu’s Guards who incline towards the religious side of their vocation.

“You said he’s helped you in your past affairs.” Treville hesitates, visibly warring with himself. Richelieu waits. Finally Treville goes on, “Have there been many others?”

“Not many.” Richelieu glances at the remaining reports, then abruptly pushes up from his desk and strides to the door to his chambers. Pulling it open, he glances over his shoulder to catch Treville’s gaze and beckons him inside. He’d prefer to have this conversation in the privacy of his chambers, away from the business of France.

Treville follows him in, looking unsure. “If you don’t want to talk about it – ” he starts.

“I don’t mind,” Richelieu reassures him. “I just thought we should be comfortable.” He bars the door, then takes the time to shed his outer layers before climbing into bed. Treville follows him at a slower pace, still seeming hesitant.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he says.

“Why not?” Richelieu asks, curious. “You wanted to know, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but – I presumed. I don’t have the right to question you.”

“My dear, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to know my past.” Richelieu smiles, trying to ease the mood.

“I suppose you know everything about mine already,” Treville mutters.

“Many things,” Richelieu concedes. “But not this.”

“No?”

Richelieu shakes his head. “I had no idea you shared my preferences,” he says candidly. “You are a much better liar than you think.”

For some reason, this makes Treville flinch slightly. But then he nods, takes a deep breath, and joins Richelieu in bed. They’re both still wearing their inner layers; the moment is intimate, but not sexual. Richelieu strokes Treville’s hair idly. Treville, for his part, toys with the fabric of Richelieu’s shirt.

“I realized I preferred men when I was still quite young,” Richelieu murmurs, keeping his voice low in deference to Treville’s discomfort. “I bedded my first boy two weeks after my first girl. The experience with the girl was nice, but there was really no comparison.”

“You’ve had mistresses,” Treville says.

“Of course. It’s expected of me. Questions would be asked if I…” Richelieu trails off. He flips rapidly through his mental index. “You’ve never had one,” he says in astonishment.

“No.” Treville bites his lip. “I can’t seem to get on at all, with women.”

“Aren’t you selling yourself a little short? You’re rich, titled…”

“Not like that,” Treville mumbles, gaze steadfastly fixed on the rich coverlets that litter Richelieu’s bed. “I mean _after_ they get in bed with me.”

“Oh.” Richelieu blinks. “Oh, I see.”

“I suppose you don’t have that problem.”

“No,” Richelieu admits. “I _prefer_ men, but I’m able to, er, keep up appearances with women, when it comes to the point.”

Treville sighs. “That must make it easier.”

“It does.” Richelieu blinks a few more times, thinking. Buried under the resignation in Treville’s voice is that eternal fear and wariness. It makes sense: a string of mistresses are a critical part of Richelieu’s defense against suspicion and accusation. Tentatively he suggests, “There are ways to satisfy a woman that don’t require your arousal. And there are also many women who would be delighted to gain the advantages of a relationship without the burdens. If you’d let me make some arrangements…”

Treville’s shaking his head. “I’ve managed by myself this long,” he says defiantly. Richelieu can’t tell if it’s shame or simple, stubborn, Gascon independence underneath Treville’s refusal. He _can_ tell that pushing the issue won’t get him anywhere, though, so he sets it aside. For now.

“I had never realized until now that you’d never had a mistress,” Richelieu offers instead. “And if I didn’t notice, no one else will.”

Treville relaxes slightly. “That’s good to hear,” he says.

He’s still tense, though. Richelieu lets one hand drift down, rub gentle circles at the small of Treville’s back until the Captain relaxes more.

A thought occurs to Richelieu. “You do understand that I wouldn’t object to you having a mistress while we’re carrying on our relationship,” he says. “It’s a necessary piece of camouflage.”

“Of course,” Treville sighs. More tension goes out of his frame. “And I suppose I should expect that you’ll do the same.”

“At some point,” Richelieu agrees. “I ended my last relationship fairly recently, so I’ll have some freedom from that obligation for a while. But eventually, yes, I’ll have to take another mistress.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Treville says after a moment. “I won’t make any trouble over it.”

Richelieu isn’t entirely satisfied with this answer, but decides upon reflection to let it go. Treville isn’t quite tense and on edge – the continued back rub probably has something to do with that – but it’s clear he isn’t entirely comfortable with this conversation. Best to redirect it.

“Anyway,” he says lightly. “As a boy, I experimented with several other young men on my family’s estate. There was one who was my lover for over two years before he was apprenticed out of the village. I had decided early that I was going into the Church, so no one was surprised that I never had more than a few early fumbles with women.”

“But you didn’t join the Church directly,” Treville says. “You joined the army.”

“My father’s idea,” Richelieu says. “He thought I’d change my mind about the priesthood.”

“He must not have known you,” Treville observes wryly.

Richelieu quirks a half-smile. “He never did spend much time with any of we children,” he agrees. “But I don’t regret the time I spent in the army. My position requires an understanding of military matters, and it taught me how to be a leader of men.”

“And it gave you scope for your preferences,” Treville says shrewdly.

“Of course.” Treville probably understands the phenomenon better than Richelieu. Young men, thrown together and isolated from women on a long campaign, often turned to each other. Even those men who didn’t lean that way wouldn’t turn down the chance for relief when the weeks turned to months without so much as a whore. It’s clandestinely done, and all parties tacitly understand it doesn’t count. But it’s one of the things that makes life as a soldier attractive to men like them.

“So one serious relationship as a youth,” Treville summarized, “and several partners in the army.”

“Correct,” Richelieu agrees. “Then I joined the Church, and for a while, any relations at all were out of the question. When I eventually rose high enough to indulge again, it was safest to stick to women at first. There were a few years, eventually, when I was secure enough to return to men, before I came to Marie de’ Medici’s attention. Nothing that lasted longer than a few months.”

“And after you joined the Queen Regent’s council?”

Richelieu shrugs, rueful. “I was far too busy trying to save France and the King to worry about my own preferences.”

Treville chuckles slightly. “You know, from the outside, you’ve always seemed like a force of nature. I expected you to have bulled through any opposition to take what you want. I don’t think I’ve ever realized exactly how bereft you really are.”

Richelieu finds himself oddly flustered. “I don’t know about that,” he says, trying to regain his footing. “I live in a palace of my own, I am – how did you put it? – richer than God – ”

“You have rare books and rarer paintings and more gold than Midas,” Treville agrees. “And yet you don’t seem to have what you really want.”

Richelieu shakes his head. “What I want can’t be bought,” he says regretfully. “No amount of money or power or faith in the divine can change the life of this world. It is a trial – designedly so, for the Lord made it to test our souls – and we must all bear with it.”

Treville twists around to look at him. Richelieu looks back, letting the determined blue eyes search him for – what? He doesn’t know. He may be a Cardinal, but he’s as helpless in the face of God’s trials as any other man. All he can do is breathe through it, and struggle each day to achieve a better tomorrow.

“When I was a boy,” Treville says abruptly, “about eleven years of age, our dairymaid asked me to step into the barn with her. My older brother thought it was time I became a man, so he told her to take me there and make it happen. I tried, but I didn’t – I couldn’t – ”

Richelieu focuses on his expression, keeping it serene. He doesn’t nod, or speak, or reach out to touch Treville. For all that they’re in their smallclothes, in bed together in sin, this has the feeling of a confession.

“She told my brother I didn’t do it, of course,” Treville goes on. “He was disappointed in me, but our father said, _the boy’s only eleven. Give him time._ I was determined to do better next time, so I began trying to learn how it worked. I spied on the other children in the village and listened to every conversation I could. Pleasuring myself was easy, but when I tried to think about girls, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. Soon I realized that it was the boys I was thinking about, that I was watching and imagining…” Treville breaks off for a moment, taking in deep breaths. His gaze flicks up to meet Richelieu’s.

“A few months later,” Treville says slowly, “I was going down to the village through the woods when I heard a scuffle. I followed the sound and found my brother. He was with several other youths. Some from the village, peasants, others from our estate that were my brother’s friends. Some of everyone. People who usually wouldn’t be caught dead together. They had another boy there – an older boy, a commoner – and they were – ”

“Using him?” Richelieu suggests.

Treville shakes his head. “No, they were torturing him.” His gaze drops. Richelieu stares down at the line of his nose, the coarse eye-lashes beginning to clump with moisture. “My brother saw me there, and told me to come in and lend a hand. That they’d caught this, this _f_ – ”

Treville breaks off, a low, despairing sound tearing free of his throat. Without conscious thought, Richelieu finds himself clutching Treville to him, holding him tightly. The Captain lets himself be held, tucking his head under Richelieu’s chin. He isn’t weeping, but neither are his eyes dry.

“I was so scared, I couldn’t do anything but stand there,” Treville whispers finally. “I couldn’t even run away. I stood there the whole time, and watched what they did to him. God, it seemed like it took forever. When they were done, they split up – they just left that poor boy’s body there in the woods – and my brother took me home. He was – oh, God, he was so _cheerful_. He practically skipped the whole way home. And he told me over and over again how glad he was that I’d been there to see it, that now I knew what a great man my older brother was.” Treville laughs humorlessly, fingers curling into fists against Richelieu. “He told me it was okay that I hadn’t joined in that time, because the first time is overwhelming. But that next time he’d come and get me before they started so I could join in. He was so proud, he said, that I was old enough now to join in.”

Something vengeful and terrible is curling in Richelieu’s chest. “I would have killed him.”

“I’m sure you would have.” Treville sighs. “Maybe you’re capable of that. I wasn’t. I was so frightened, and horrified, and confused – for, you see, he was still my brother. Still the one I’d always looked up to, and admired, and wanted to emulate. And he still loved me. That’s the worst of it. He didn’t know, so he went right on loving me, all the while hating what I was.”

“What happened to him?” Treville inherited the estate, Richelieu knows. The brother can’t have lived much past the events Treville is recounting.

“There was a measles epidemic the following winter.” There’s something guilty lurking in Treville’s voice, now, that makes Richelieu want to smash things. “I know what you’ll say, but… I knew that it was just a matter of time before he found out about me. If nothing else he’d send the milkmaid back to me again, and what was I supposed to do? I prayed that something would happen to save me. And then the measles came and he died.”

“God’s justice,” Richelieu says fiercely.

“My brother’s not the sinner in God’s eyes,” Treville disagrees. “I am.”

“God forgives you.”

“You can’t promise me that.”

“Most people are content to take a Cardinal’s word for it.” Richelieu wants to smile, make it a joke. But there’s nothing about this that’s a laughing matter.

Treville doesn’t answer directly. “After he died,” he says instead, “I became the heir. Whenever anyone asked, I told them that I’d bedded Odile – the milkmaid – and that I was madly in love with the older sister of one of my brother’s friends.”

“What did Odile say?”

“Nothing.” Treville looks away. “She died of the measles, too.”

“I see.” It’s all Richelieu trusts himself to say right now. There’s nothing to be done, no safe outlet for the anger and anguish battling for supremacy in his breast. The players in Treville’s past are all ghosts, and the wounds they’d dealt him had scarred over long ago. Anything Richelieu does will only rip them open and make them bleed. It’s less painful to let them lie, however much it tears Richelieu up inside to do it.

“Anyway, six months later I was old enough to join the army, so off I went. My father was so proud. He’d been a soldier too.”

“Yes, I remember,” Richelieu manages. “He was quite the favorite of Henry IV.”

“He died while I was on my first campaign. Everyone expected that I’d come home then, but there wasn’t anything for me there. I was safer in the army.” He sighs.

Richelieu knows what’s coming next. Says: “And there was Gasteau.”

“Yes.” Treville twists away from Richelieu, falling back against the cool sheets with a sigh. He spreads his limbs out like a starfish, staring up at the canopy while Richelieu settles himself likewise. “I met him on that same campaign – not long before my father died. He was the first person to tell me that it was okay to want to do things with him. With men. And he was the only person to tell me that it was okay not to be sad that my father and brother were dead.”

Richelieu makes a wordless noise of acknowledgement. He can see it all so clearly. The older, experienced soldier and the vulnerable young man. Gasteau would have had perhaps a decade on Treville. More than enough to seem worldly. The reassurances of such a man would have been desirable beyond measure. More than enough to earn a young man’s devotion.

“Back then, Gasteau wasn’t bitter yet. He hadn’t yet given up hope of getting what he thought the world owed him. He used to say that once he was King, he’d change the laws, and men like us wouldn’t have to hide anymore.” Treville sighs. “I knew that it would never be that easy – to change the law is one thing, assuming he could even do it, but to change men’s hearts, and the teachings of the Church? Impossible. But Gasteau _believed_ it. And he had a way of making me believe it, too, at least when he was with me. It was such a pleasant dream.”

“What happened?” Richelieu asks softly, fearing to push, but needing to know.

Treville shrugs. “He started to realize that there was no legitimate road that led him to the throne. His plans got more radical, more violent… Gasteau started talking about rebellion. About being the next Condé, a successful Condé.”

Richelieu thinks of the papers he’d taken from Gasteau’s corpse. It wouldn’t have been impossible. The Cardinal had had no idea that such a man as Gasteau had even been alive, despite all his spies, and that man had very nearly succeeded in seizing the throne away from its rightful owner. He shudders.

“Eventually Gasteau couldn’t take it anymore. He left the regulars. I’d already been transferred into the Musketeers, which had put a strain on our relationship. But when he left he asked me to come with him. I refused. And that was that.”

“I’m sorry,” Richelieu murmurs.

“Me too,” Treville sighs. “He deserved a better life than the one he had. It’s a terrible thing, to be the son of a King.”

That hadn’t been what Richelieu meant. But he lets it stand. He has the feeling that Treville wouldn’t appreciate sympathy for himself, for all that he deserves it.

He wishes, futilely, that so many of the people from Treville’s past weren’t already dead. His father, brother, and first lover are all beyond Richelieu’s reach. If he could, he’d bring them back to life and exact punishment for everything they’d done to Treville. For what they’d meant to do and what they hadn’t meant but had done anyway. For what they’d thought and what they’d said and what they’d meant.

Treville lets his head fall to one side and gives Richelieu a half-smile. Richelieu smiles back, helpless to do otherwise. Even after all of that history, Treville is here in his bed. That’s a level of bravery that awes Richelieu. Treville may carry shame and guilt and fear with him every day, but he _does_ carry it – he doesn’t let it weigh him down. Richelieu will do anything he can to lighten it. But it’s worthy of his admiration.

He can’t help reaching out and pulling Treville close. Astonishingly, the Captain allows it. Richelieu hadn’t been sure he would want to be touched. But he presses close, as if seeking the reassurance of another body next to his. And Richelieu gives in to the urge to wrap Treville up tight in his arms, in silent apology that he can do so little else to help.

It must be worth something to Treville regardless, because when they wake up the next morning, Treville has one arm flung around Richelieu, and doesn’t panic about who might have noticed he’d stayed the night.

* * *

After that conversation, Treville takes his newest recruits on a short training mission, three days and two nights. The Cardinal doesn’t say a word against his going. He’s come to understand that Treville needs his space after anything too personal. The Captain fears exposure, both public and private. He assures Richelieu that he’d wanted to tell him about his past, but he still needs time to rebuild his façade for the benefit of society.

Richelieu kisses him goodbye in the predawn candlelight of his room in the Palais-Cardinal, then spends the time dealing with several discontented nobles in the south of France. Writing up decrees and then convincing the King to sign them is just the sort of fiddly political work to distract Richelieu and absorb his attention. The taxes from those areas are sorely needed, and just as sorely past due.

“It’s like they think they aren’t subject to the throne,” Louis grumps, sitting behind his desk scrawling his signature on a pile of decrees Richelieu has had prepared.

“You must not allow that kind of thinking,” the Queen Mother says sententiously – and, to Richelieu’s ear, hypocritically. Marie de’ Medici is still enthroned at the Louvre, despite Louis’ hints about the comfort of her chateau at Blois. Today she’s sitting with Louis, ‘to keep him company in the absence of dear Anne’. The Queen has fled Paris under the pretext of taking the waters to improve her fertility. Richelieu approves of the sentiment but not the motivation; it’s clear to everyone at court except Louis that she’s trying to get away from Marie. The Queen Mother is relentless. The King is no help at all.

“The matter is in hand, your Majesty,” Richelieu says pacifyingly. “The King is in the act of making several decrees, which should put an end to their discontent.”

Marie sniffs. “Well, if you can get results with a piece of paper, Cardinal, I will be very much surprised. I remember finding that nothing worked so well as military force.” She nods decisively, looking far too pleased at the prospect of fighting among France’s nobility. “I’m sure Captain Treville’s Musketeers could have them apologizing within a week.”

“You do us too much credit, your Majesty,” Treville drawls from his place at the far end of the room. He’d returned the night before, and Richelieu is already anticipating tonight’s visit. “I’m sure Cardinal Richelieu’s methods will be equally effective.”

Richelieu accepts this compliment with a gracious nod. Treville glances over at him, and for a moment they are in perfect harmony, sharing a long-suffering look at the Queen Mother’s relentless pushing.

“As long as they don’t think we’re toothless,” Marie says disdainfully.

Richelieu grits his teeth. “I only strive for law and order, your Majesty.”

“Oh, yes, that reminds me,” Louis says absently. He tosses the pen aside, done with the stack at last. Richelieu steps over to the desk and picks up the papers, folding them into a neat stack and tucking them away under his robes. Louis goes on, “We really are going to have to do something about the brigand problem. Now I hear they’re attacking diplomatic couriers.”

Richelieu arranges his face into an expression of polite surprise and dismay. “Oh dear.”

“Couriers?” Marie de’ Medici repeats, twisting around on her chair to face Louis. “What couriers?”

“Hmm?” Louis stands up and stretches, pacing over to the window. “Oh, that’s right, you weren’t here when I heard… apparently the latest Savoyan courier to Spain was waylaid in Gascony. Found a few days ago by a party of huntsman. Purse missing, packet missing, and his guts spread over three hundred paces. Messy business.” Louis gives an artless shudder.

“Why they insist on taking that roundabout route I’ll never know,” Richelieu says lightly, keeping one eye on Marie.

She’s too good to freeze, or blanch, or show any obvious signs of dismay. But there’s a flash in her eyes when she says: “What an outrage. Are the roads in France so unsafe? We’ll be the laughingstock of Europe.”

“Oh, come on now, it’s hardly as bad as that,” Richelieu says. “Europe has other things to worry about than the safe passage of a courier from a small Duchy like Savoy.”

“All the same,” Treville says unexpectedly. “We should look into the matter.”

Richelieu blinks. The last few months have let him grow acquainted with the subtle variations of Treville’s voice, and his ear tells him now that something is off. He darts a quick glance over. The Captain’s face is neutral enough, but Richelieu can see that some emotion is being ruthlessly suppressed.

“I don’t know why we even let them pass through France at all,” Louis pouts. “If they’re going to talk to our enemies they can go the long way around.”

Richelieu pulls his attention back to the King. “France _is_ the long way around,” he observes.

“Well then let them take a shortcut!”

“My son,” Marie intervenes. “The Treaty of 1601 – ”

Louis throws himself into his throne with a dramatic sigh. “Yes, yes, the treaty. You and Richelieu remind me daily of that damn treaty.” He rolls his eyes to look up at the Cardinal. “What we really need is a _new_ treaty. One that puts that stupid little pimple back in its rightful place.”

Richelieu nods gravely. “Perhaps God will send, your Majesty.”

“He’d better get on with it, then.” Louis yawns. “Oh, go away, all of you. I’m bored.”

Richelieu bows and goes to withdraw.

“And Cardinal?”

Richelieu straightens. “Yes, your Majesty?”

Louis gives him an uncomfortably penetrating look. “See to the issue about the courier, will you?”

“Yes,” Marie repeats chillily. “See that you do.”

Richelieu bows again. “Of course, your Majesty,” he says to the King.

* * *

Once outside the throne room, Richelieu sets off walking at a fast clip. He doesn’t have to turn his head to know that Treville is following him.

“Were his guts really spread over three hundred paces?” the Captain asks quietly.

“I doubt it,” the Cardinal says, equally quietly. “Twenty is more likely.”

Treville grunts. Richelieu chances a look sideways. The Captain’s mouth is pinched shut, and there’s a cast to his features that the Cardinal mislikes: equal parts anger, dismay, and revulsion.

He wants to ask about it. Not here, though. The throne room is in the heart of the Louvre, and they’re surrounded by servants, guards, and lesser nobles. But as they walk the crowds get thinner. Within minutes they’re back in the administrative wing of the palace, and Richelieu is closing the door to Jussac’s office.

Richelieu turns from this task to see Treville leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Why did you kill the courier?” Treville asks without preamble.

“What was I supposed to do?” Richelieu asks in return, carefully matching Treville’s tone. “Give him a meal and a new horse, and send him straight back to his masters to report?”

“I thought you’d stage it as a mugging. A band of highwaymen or something. He’d lose his dispatches and be forced to creep back to Savoy in disgrace.”

Richelieu stares. “Why on earth?”

“Because then the Duke wouldn’t know France was behind it?”

“Yes, that would work perfectly, since the Duke is an utter idiot.” Richelieu shakes his head impatiently. “Don’t you see it doesn’t matter? France will be held responsible either way. The guarantee of safety extends to keeping law and order within our borders. The man could have been gutted by actual highwaymen and the result would be the same.”

“Except maybe he wouldn’t have been gutted,” Treville grits out.

“Have you ever heard of a courier who would surrender his dispatches before his life?”

“A packet may be stolen.”

“Yes, by killing its bearer.”

“Did you consider anything else?” Treville leans forward, bringing himself into the Cardinal’s personal space, their gazes level. “Did you think twice before killing him?”

Richelieu blinks.

Think twice? Why would he?

Does it matter?

Treville is watching him steadily, the look in his eyes inexplicably disappointed.

Pushed to it, Richelieu snaps, “You’re very sensitive for a man in the business of killing.” Then he wonders what on earth is wrong with him. That’s hardly going to soothe Treville’s ruffled feathers.

Indeed, the Captain is snapping right back, “Soldiering is one thing. Backwoods murder is something else. It’s dishonorable. It’s _wrong._ ”

Richelieu grits his teeth. How does this man manage to destroy every shred of his control so very thoroughly? “It was necessary,” he manages.

“Killing one man in the woods is necessary? When you could have simply overpowered him?” Treville pulls away. He paces once in a tight circle, then seems to visibly force himself to be still.

Richelieu knows the feeling. He says, “Even if the courier were stupid, the Duke of Savoy and the Queen Mother are not. They would have known immediately that I was behind it, and with the courier alive, they might have the proof they need to do something about it. The man may have been able to identify his assailants. Should I risk my Guards’ lives on that?”

“Did you even try to think of another way?” Treville demands. His voice has grown quieter, but also colder. He’s balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to fight.

Ready to run.

Richelieu presses his lips together, stung. Why can’t Treville see past his disgust to the necessity of France’s safety? And why can’t Richelieu find the words to make him see?

“What I have to do is rarely pleasant, but it’s always necessary,” he tries. Keeping his voice dispassionate is an effort. The Cardinal wants to shout, or to snarl, to use his words like knives to hurt. He reins it all in. Only calm has a chance of reaching Treville past the wall of anger the other man has thrown up.

It doesn’t work. Richelieu knows it instantly. Treville doesn’t relax. Instead the Captain shifts his weight further. Richelieu can read the desire all over Treville’s face: he _wants_ to run, to flee, to bury his head in the sand and never have to deal with unpleasant realities again.

“That’s not something I can live with,” Treville says finally.

Silence reigns between them for a long moment. For the first time in a long while, Richelieu honestly has no idea what to say or do.

“Look, I’m not naïve,” Treville goes on. “I know that sometimes these things really are necessary. And I’m sure it must be easier to have a man killed than to make it look like an accident. But something being easy doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it _just_.”

Richelieu thinks he should say something to that. There must be some way to explain. He’s generally considered to be a powerful speaker; words are a weapon for him, just as deadly as swords. He’s sure, if he tries, he can explain it all to Treville. Previous evidence to the contrary.

But what would be the point? Richelieu _does_ murder. He _does_ bribe, and blackmail, and buy and sell whores, and do all of the other things Treville has cast up to him at one point or another during their short _affaire_. Richelieu has dedicated himself to a cause. To France. To God and King and Country. In the pursuit of that goal, Richelieu has no limits.

Treville, apparently, does.

“Are you going to tell me it’s justified?” Treville wants to know.

Richelieu opens and closes his mouth several times before he finally manages to say, “No.”

He wants to. Oh, he wants to. But it would be foolish. Reckless. _Pointless_. Treville’s made his position clear; there’s no room for debate.

“Good,” Treville says. He sounds suddenly exhausted. “That’s good. Because nothing could have convinced me. And if you’d tried…”

Richelieu tries to smile. He’s not sure how it comes out.

Treville exhales heavily. “Give me time,” he says. “This is – I don’t know how to deal with this. It’s my own fault, I suppose. I’ve been so wrapped up in – and I’ve been forgetting who you are. Thinking of the man as being somehow separate from the Cardinal. But it won’t do. You’re the same person no matter what uniform you’re wearing.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Richelieu closes his lips over the explanations that long to spill out. Treville will make his peace with the man Richelieu is, or he won’t. There’s nothing Richelieu can do to sway him one way or another. As Treville has told him twice already, he’s not a whore.

And the truth is, anyway, that if Treville could be bought, Richelieu would no longer have wanted to buy him. If Treville is unwilling to proceed, then they will part, and Richelieu will simply have to turn his affections elsewhere.

With time, the Cardinal is sure he can manage it.

“Give me time,” Treville repeats, unconsciously echoing Richelieu’s thoughts.

“Of course,” Richelieu agrees again, and does not watch as Treville walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks pass with no word. Richelieu tries not to dwell on it. He reminds himself that all serious decisions take time. He tries to be glad that Treville is taking this decision seriously.

Treville goes out of his way to avoid the Cardinal. He occupies himself with the construction of the new Musketeers’ garrison, and attends court but rarely. Richelieu takes a message of the King’s down to the garrison one day, testing the waters. Treville takes it from him with courtesy, but also with distance, and in his eyes Richelieu reads a wish for absence.

Richelieu honors that with his actions, and tries his best to make his heart honor it as well. It’s surprisingly difficult. He finds himself wanting to speak to Treville, to discuss this matter or that. To listen to Treville take him to task over some trivial matter or other, and hear that familiar, soothing accent again.

Or just to have the Musketeer with him. Treville could be sitting in silence, reading a book, while Richelieu attends to matters of state. Richelieu just wants him nearby.

It’s possible Richelieu is even more deeply invested in this than he’d realized.

As a coping technique, Richelieu throws himself into the Savoy situation. Unfortunately, it’s almost depressingly easy to resolve the matter. Savoy accepts that France has the letter to Spain with minimal proof. The same nobleman who’d dropped off the diplomatic packet with Christine-Marie’s letter comes to the Palais-Cardinal personally to grovel on Savoy’s behalf. The Spanish affair had been a moment of temporary insanity, he explained obsequiously, driven by a discontented minority within Savoy’s court and the pressures from their merchant class. Victor Amadeus has all in hand now. Nothing like that letter will ever be heard of or even thought of again. Savoy is France’s dutiful servant.

It leaves Richelieu in desperate need of a bath, and with all of his instincts on high alert. Even backed up against a wall, Savoy should still have snapped and postured a bit. Instead they’d rolled right over and shown their throat. Richelieu doesn’t like it. He’s been doing this a long time, and he’s unfortunately familiar with the tense, stretched sensation that the penny is about to drop.

It’s in this state that he finds himself leading High Mass for the King’s household at Michaelmas. The summer has vanished in a blur of politics, both international and personal. Richelieu soldiers through the service, trying very hard to avoid looking at the fourth pew, where Treville and his most highly-ranked Musketeers are attending in full dress.

The Psalm for this feast day has always been one of his favorites. They shorten it for the King’s household, busy people all, but one of the privileges of being Cardinal is that Richelieu gets to choose which section to keep. He recites it softly but clearly, heartfelt:

_The Lord is full of compassion and mercy: long-suffering, and of great goodness._

_He will not always be chiding: neither keepeth He His anger for ever._

_He hath not dealt with us after our sins: nor rewarded us according to our wickednesses._

_For look how high the heaven is in comparison of the earth: so great is His mercy also toward they that fear Him._

When Richelieu ascends the podium to deliver the homily, he sees, to his complete unsurprise, that the pew four down from the King is empty. Treville has gone.

* * *

After Mass, Richelieu exits the Basilica from the priests’ rooms, still in his formal robes. He prefers to change at the Palais-Cardinal. The King and his household have already left. Richelieu wonders idly which of Marie or Anne got into the carriage with the King for the ride back to the Louvre. The place is Anne’s by right, of course, but Marie frequently attempts to preempt the Queen.

Richelieu’s own carriage has already been brought around. He climbs in, mind a thousand miles away. He blames this for the fact that he doesn’t realize the carriage is already occupied until Jussac closes the door on him.

“I found your homily quite moving, your Eminence,” Milady says from the shadows of the opposite seat. “I hadn’t thought you were quite so well acquainted with the concept of mercy.”

Richelieu relaxes deliberately into the cushions, raising one eyebrow sardonically as the carriage sways into motion. “I have experienced the Lord’s mercy my entire life,” he deadpans. “Naturally I am well-qualified to discuss the matter.”

“Of course.” Milady reaches into her amble bosom – the gesture slow and sensuous – and withdraws a letter. Richelieu allows his eyes to follow the motion for form’s sake. He’s sampled Milady’s charms before, when she’d first entered his service, and found them to be not inconsiderable. But he prefers that she direct them at his enemies, and he’s never given her a reason to think he might change that order, despite her occasional attempts.

“What is this?” he asks now, taking the letter and thumbing it open.

“The latest gossip from Savoy,” Milady answers, an unusual note of seriousness entering her voice.

“That fool Cluzet?” Richelieu doesn’t wait for an answer to this, rapidly skimming the contents of the letter. He reaches the end and goes back to the beginning, reading it again, more slowly. “Damn,” he breathes.

This is it, the penny he’d felt hanging in the air, the reason Savoy had been so outwardly submissive over the matter of the disappearing courier. Cluzet has taken a leap, of logic or of intuition, and guessed how the courier’s route had fallen into Richelieu’s hands. Worse, it seems like he might actually be close to proving it. The Duchess feels herself threatened. She writes to beg for action.

“I thought you’d want this immediately,” Milady says.

“You were right.” Richelieu closes the letter. The matter is too far advanced for negotiation or diplomacy: Cluzet must be eliminated.

And yet not killed. Dead bodies had a way of turning up where one least wants them. A courier dead in the Gascon wildlands is one thing; the Savoyan chancellor quite another.

Jailed, then. Somewhere secure, and for the rest of his life. It’s the most practical arrangement. The fact that it will avoid the problem of another death on Richelieu’s hands is entirely coincidental.

Richelieu’s gaze flicks up and catches Milady’s. She reads his face easily. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. She only says, “For that he must be drawn out of Savoy.”

Milady will have been planning for this eventuality. Even if Richelieu had ordered Cluzet’s death, it would still be far easier to decoy him out of Savoy to accomplish it. His death would be blamed on France regardless of the location in which his body would have been found, so there’s no point in taking the extra risk of killing him in Savoy. And if Richelieu prefers to imprison him… well, that’s best done from within France, too.

Milady will have realized all of this. She’ll have already begun arrangements. Richelieu has only to ask, “What do you require?”

“A fast horse, an armed escort, and two hundred livre,” she says at once.

“Done. You’ll have Boisrenard and a company. Is that sufficient?”

“More than.” Milady gathers her skirts as the carriage comes to a halt. “I’ll have Cluzet out of Savoy and exposed within a day after my arrival. You’ll be ready to abduct him?”

“So long as you send intelligence of his route ahead.” Richelieu doesn’t ask what methods Milady will employ to encourage Cluzet out of the safety of his own country. They’ll be effective; that’s all he needs to know.

“I’ll send it by way of your agent in Reims.” Milady gives him her most devastating smile. “I’ll expect quite the reward for this, Cardinal.”

“You’ll get it, never fear.”

“Why, with you at my back, I never even tremble.” Milady tosses her hair and opens the door onto a started Jussac, then flounces out of the carriage. “Send the troop to meet me at the north gate,” she calls back, already striding away.

“Your Eminence?” Jussac says cautiously, peering inside the coach as if he expects Richelieu to have an entire troupe of women to hand, and visibly unsure of what to do if Richelieu does.

Richelieu ignores this confusion and climbs out of the carriage at a more sedate pace. “Summon Boisrenard to me, then ready a company of Guardsmen for a short journey,” he orders. “Supplies for three days. Then prepare a purse of two hundred livre, and my fastest horse.”

“Yes, your Eminence,” Jussac says, relieved to be back on solid ground.

“And send someone to the Musketeer’s barracks,” Richelieu adds over his shoulder, striding into the Palais-Cardinal. “I’ll need to see Captain Treville at once.”

* * *

“Cluzet?” Treville says in some confusion. “The Chancellor of Savoy? You want to arrest the Chancellor of Savoy?”

“Abduct,” Richelieu corrects. “There will be no charges.”

Treville is looking at him suspiciously. He’d been wary from the moment he’d appeared, and it had been obvious he’d expected Richelieu to press his suit, not launch straight into a matter of international politics. Treville had been caught relatively flatfooted, and he’s still catching up.

“Why now?” he asks. “Why the sudden urgency?”

“I’ve received word from Savoy,” Richelieu says. “If my agent is right – and she is always right – then Cluzet is within days of obtaining the final proof he needs to convince the Duke that his wife has not left her French loyalties quite so far behind her as her marriage vows would seem to indicate.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Treville swears. “Can you suborn him?”

Richelieu looks at him in surprise. “I thought you despised such things.”

“I do,” Treville says, distaste evident. “But my opinion isn’t going to change how you operate.”

Richelieu looks over sharply. Yes, there it is, underneath the distaste: resignation. Is that good or bad? At least it proves Treville has spent the past two weeks to some purpose, though Richelieu isn’t sure that _resignation_ is the desired outcome.

“You’ve tried bribes?” Treville is asking. “Blackmail? Outright threats?”

Non-fatal options all. Richelieu nods. “In the past. They’ve had no effect. The man’s a complete patriot, more’s the pity.”

“So you want to arrest him – ”

“Abduct,” Richelieu repeats.

“Abduct him. Well, it’s better that having him killed. But I don’t dare hope you’re planning to give him a trial?”

“With what crime could I possibly charge him?”

“I’m sure you could think of something,” Treville says dryly.

“He’s the Chancellor of Savoy. Nothing short of capital heresy or outright regicide would stick. The former would require oversight from Rome – ”

“They’re too inclined towards Spanish support to back your play.”

“Exactly. And I’m afraid I’m not willing to dice with the King’s life in order to make a regicide charge credible. Nor, I imagine, are you.”

“Which leaves abduction.” Treville shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Richelieu says, resigned. He’d been a fool to hope that Treville would be satisfied with imprisonment over murder. Still, he can’t help but add, “You must see it’s necessary.”

“Is it?” Treville looks down at the letter Milady brought Richelieu – Richelieu had handed it over to Treville as soon as the Captain had arrived, out of breath and full of curiosity. “What if we could simply block him from obtaining the proof?”

“Perhaps,” Richelieu agrees cautiously. It has not escaped his attention that Treville has said _we_ ; he tells himself he doesn’t know what to make of it, and that it’s too soon to jump to conclusions, but all the while a quiet part of him is starting to hope.

“Well then – ”

“We can _perhaps_ block him. This time. But Cluzet is personally convinced of Christine Marie’s treachery. He won’t give up. How many times can I defeat him? Five? Ten? Say twenty. The twenty-first time, he will succeed. And then he will destroy the Duchess, rip apart the first family of Savoy, and undermine France’s entire security in the region.”

“That poor little boy,” Treville says, referring, so Richelieu assumes, to the Duchess’ son Louis Amadeus.

“There will be many more poor little boys in France if we lose the security of Savoy on our borders,” Richelieu points out.

“The King has approved this?”

“He ordered it.” Years ago, in fact. When the Duchess first began spying for France. They hadn’t specifically discussed Cluzet – the man hadn’t been Chancellor at the time – but Louis had been very clear about how far Richelieu is to go in order to protect Christine-Marie.

Actually, Louis is likely to be annoyed that Richelieu plans only to imprison Cluzet. The King will want the man who threatened his little sister killed outright. But that’s a problem for a later time.

Treville sighs. “One man against the safety of a nation.”

“Just so.” Richelieu watches the internal struggle play out on Treville’s too-open face. “If it makes you feel any better, you can reflect on the fact that Cluzet is well aware of the risks inherent in his position. He lives a dangerous life.”

“Like you do,” Treville says. His gaze flicks over to meet Richelieu’s. “Do you ever think about it?” he asks. “Someone doing the same to you one day?”

Richelieu presses his lips together. “Why do you think I am so paranoid?”

Treville snorts, but remains thoughtful. Richelieu wonders what is occupying the Captain so. He doesn’t dare hope it’s thoughts of Richelieu imprisoned, framed or killed that have that put that pensive look on Treville’s face. The Captain isn’t even sure if he wants to continue their relationship. How much further must he be from the sort of protective emotions Richelieu envisions?

“Regardless,” Richelieu says, pushing all secondary thoughts away. “To capture Cluzet in the heart of Savoy is next to impossible. Much easier to capture him when he ventures outside.”

“But how to lure him out? If he’s so close to proof as you say, he’s got no reason to leave and every reason to stay.”

“Cluzet is both methodical and greedy. He could go to the Duke right now, but he prefers to wait for the final, ultimate proof. Proof which he believes is about to fall into his hands.”

“Proof for which he must leave Savoy,” Treville says in dawning understanding.

“Precisely.”

“Where will he go?”

“Here.” Richelieu gestures to the map of France and Savoy that still lies out on his map-table. A new path has appeared on it, marked with blue flags. It marches from Turin, due north, deep into the wildness of la Fere.

Treville whistles. “That’s obscure country,” he says. “What on earth can lure him out there?”

“The identity of his informant.” Richelieu gives Treville a satisfied smile. “Naturally, his informant has attempted to operate anonymously, for her own protection. However, she has been… clumsy. Cluzet has been able to ascertain her true identity. This fact explains to him why he is travelling out to the wilds of France, and gives him the security that the trip is not meant to needlessly decoy him away from more settled areas.”

“Unless of course, the spy is, and has always been, your creature.”

“Just so.”

“And the clumsiness?”

“Deliberate.”

“Of course.” Treville sighs. “Another trick.”

“How else am I supposed to get anything done?” Richelieu frowns. “Not all enemies are found on a battlefield.”

“Well, I can’t think what you wanted me here for,” Treville says flatly. “Spycraft and skullduggery – I want no part of it.”

“Unfortunately sometimes my spycraft and your warcraft go hand in hand,” Richelieu says, as patiently as he knows how. “I wanted you here because I need your help.”

“Help?” Treville’s disdain is painted on his face. “I won’t stab someone in a dark alley for you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nothing so crude,” Richelieu says coldly. “Resources only.”

“What kind of resources?”

“Horses. I need to distract the Savoyan military, so they’re unable to react quickly when news of Cluzet’s disappearance reaches Savoy. Otherwise we won’t have time to conceal Cluzet before they are able to investigate.”

“How will horses help you do that?”

“I’ll be sending a troop of men to the Savoyan border. They’ll appear to be staging military exercises, but actually, they’ll be carrying a second set of orders. Orders to assassinate Victor Amadeus so that France can put his son on the Savoyan throne. Once those orders fall into Savoyan hands – ”

“What!” Disdain gives way to horror on Treville’s face. “They’re just supposed to – Richelieu, the Savoyan military will never believe those orders are genuine unless they take them from the cold dead bodies of your men.”

“There are ways to arrange that,” Richelieu says dismissively. Boisrenard is an expert at this sort of thing. A scouting party ‘accidentally’ crossing a border. Being ‘surprised’ by the appearance of Savoyan soldiers. Leaving behind their bags in their flight. Bags which, conveniently, will include copies of assassination orders.

Such things happen in spycraft. And Boisrenard knows how to make it convincing.

“ _Morts touts le diable_ ,” Treville swears, still horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you I am extremely serious.”

“The King?” Treville demands. “Does the King know about _this_ part of the plan?”

“He ordered it,” Richelieu repeats. Actually, this part had been the King’s idea in the first place. It appeals to his sense of drama. Fortunately it’s also effective.

Treville appears to be struck dumb by this. He stares, and doesn’t make a sound.

Richelieu makes an impatient gesture. “This is how it works on my side of the cloak. A feint, a misdirection, a Chancellor gone missing in the dead of night. And the course of nations are altered. Your business, your wars, are what happen when I fail. I have no intention of failing.”

Treville is listening to Richelieu like he can’t believe his ears. Like the Cardinal has transformed, before his eyes, into a stranger he doesn’t recognize. “And to avoid failing,” he says slowly, “You’ll send a single troop of men to face off against the entire Savoyan army?”

“I’d do considerably more than that,” Richelieu says. “Fortunately, in this case we have the upper hand.”

“The upper – ” Treville’s mouth snaps shut. He breathes hard for a few minutes, while Richelieu waits, trying to figure out what has him so infuriated. Why is a deception on Richelieu’s part so much more unclean than the sort of tricks freely employed in warfare? He doesn’t understand it. Has never understood it. A knife in the back or a sword in the gut, in a dark alley or a brightly-lit battlefield – death is death, however you slice it. But he’s always known, from simple observation, that most people draw a distinction between the two.

The Cardinal thinks, in a distant part of his mind, that it’s funny. Richelieu has done things to Treville, _with_ Treville, that would have had most Catholics trembling for their immortal souls. If anyone had discovered them together, the consequences would be enormous. Dishonor. Ruin. Torture. Mutilation. Death. And yet none of those things had caused Treville to look at Richelieu as he does now. A simple political maneuver, and Treville stares as one who beholds the torments of Hell.

“Is there anything you won’t do?” Treville asks finally, voice tight with suppressed emotion. “Is there any line you won’t cross?”

What can Richelieu say to that? What can Richelieu do about that? If Treville can’t stand it, if he can’t accept it, then there’s no future for them, and there never had been.

“For France,” Richelieu says carefully, truthfully, “nothing.”

Treville stares at him. Richelieu lets him; there seems to be nothing to say.

“How…” Treville’s voice seems to fail him. After a moment he clears his throat and goes on. “How do you select the men for this duty?”

“For distraction?”

“Call it that.”

“They’re volunteers.”

“Who would volunteer for this?”

Richelieu shakes his head impatiently. What does it matter? “Men who like hazard pay,” he guesses. For the extra risk to his Guards’ lives on a mission like this, he routinely doubles their pay – after all, if they slip up, if they fail to strike the exact balance between posing a threat the Savoyan military must honor and keeping their escape routes clear, there’s a very real chance they’ll take heavy casualties. So Richelieu rewards their loyalty financially.

He thinks about it further and adds, “Political incentives.” Boisrenard has a daughter who hopes to marry well. Richelieu’s influence will make up for many a dowry’s deficiency.

“Volunteers,” Treville says, like he can’t believe it.

Quietly, the small hope that had sprouted in Richelieu’s breast withers and dies.

“They will need extra horses,” Richelieu says, reverting to practicality with iron control. France is in danger. His personal life is irrelevant. “In order to get into position in time, and back out again – ” he walks his fingers across the map, showing the journey from Paris to the Savoyan border, a fair distance away from where Cluzet will be going to meet with Milady. “The Guards haven’t any waystations this far out, but the Musketeers have one at Lyon. Give Boisrenard a letter from you, authorizing he and his men to change out horses there.”

“That’s it?” Treville gives Richelieu a look of deep suspicion. “That’s all you want of me?”

“No spycraft,” Richelieu promises. For whatever good his word may do. “Just a letter. Will you do that for me?”

Once again, Treville stares at Richelieu. This time the meaning of his gaze is obvious. He’s searching for hidden hooks or snares. Richelieu realizes, with dismay, that he’s far too familiar with this look. It seems like Treville’s given it to him at least once every time they’ve been together – even before the hunting lodge.

Those three days changed everything for Richelieu. But he’s starting to think that they changed nothing for Treville. Have they really been so far apart this whole time?

“For France,” Treville says finally. He walks around Richelieu’s desk, reaches for pen and paper, and begins writing.

“Thank you,” Richelieu says, watching Treville wistfully. He wonders if there’s anywhere they can go from here; he tries not to think that the answer is _nowhere._

Treville finishes his writing and pauses, pen hovering above the bottom of the page. It wants only his signature.

“Armand,” he says.

Richelieu starts at the sound of his Christian name. Treville’s never called him that before. Not once. Not in the heat of passion. Not even when he’d opened up about his past. It drives home to Richelieu how little intimacy they’ve enjoyed before now, despite Richelieu’s best efforts.

“Yes?” Richelieu asks, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

“They’re volunteers?” Treville repeats.

“Yes.”

“And the King knows of this.”

“He ordered it,” Richelieu says a third time.

The Captain swallows. “All right,” he says heavily. “All right.”

Treville signs the letter. Richelieu, watching, wonders why he looks so very defeated as he does.

* * *

Boisrenard’s troop rides out two hours later. Richelieu sees them off, having spent the majority of the intervening time giving Boisrenard updated intelligence of the entire Savoyan border, with emphasis on the many escape routes that will be available to his men. There are no guarantees in this business, but Boisrenard has handled four of these delicate military operations for Richelieu before; he’s practically a specialist. And he and Richelieu both know this is one of the good ones. Their intelligence is excellent, the terrain is in their favor, and there are many possible bolt-holes they can use to evade the Savoyan military.

“Do you have all you require?” Richelieu asks Boisrenard and the rest of his troop, who have mounted up in the courtyard of the Palais-Cardinal. He runs an eye over the company: supplies for three days, weapons, formal uniforms for show, practical armor for work. Peeking from Boisrenard’s doublet is a folded square of paper: Treville’s authorization to use the Musketeers’ remounts.

“We have everything,” Boisrenard reassures him. It’s not an empty answer. Boisrenard knows well that Richelieu would give Boisrenard anything he asked for, without question or complaint. If Boisrenard says they have all they need, Richelieu may trust that it is the truth, not a pleasantry.

“Then here.” Richelieu hands the diplomatic bag up to Boisrenard. This is one of the best parts of the plan. The regular dispatches are due to be sent to Turin this week. Boisrenard is an accredited courier. The Guards will deliver them to Savoy, ride out openly back towards Paris, then duck off the road. This added flourish, that gives Boisrenard and his men open passport to idle near the Savoy/France border, will give additional credibility to the other letters Boisrenard carries. Unsigned but in Richelieu’s hand, they order the assassination of Victor Amadeus in favor of his son. Two birds with one stone: it will seem like exactly the sort of scheme Richelieu would cook up.

And while the Savoyan military is wholly distracted with this wild goose chase, Cluzet will ride out to meet with Milady, and be spirited away by the _other_ troop Richelieu is dispatching today.

After Boisrenard’s men are clear of the courtyard, a second company led by Bernajoux assembles and mounts. They bring considerably more in the way of supplies with them, enough that they’ll also take pack animals, where Boisrenard’s men carried their own supplies in saddle-bags to travel faster. Bernajoux’s men will move more slowly, but they have less far to go, and they must remain at large longer.

“Your primary orders are to capture Cluzet,” Richelieu repeats. “Follow Milady’s orders insofar as they are compatible with that. Do you have everything you need?”

Bernajoux, like Boisrenard, assures Richelieu that he needs nothing.

“Go with God,” Richelieu blesses them, and watches as they ride out.

Richelieu walks back inside slowly, mind going in a thousand directions. He’s considering the political impacts of Cluzet’s disappearance, rebalancing the politics of the Savoyan court and guessing who will step forward to fill the void Cluzet leaves. He’s tracing over the geography between Paris and Turin, confirming again that all of his men will be in place at the critical moment. And he’s considering what reaction Louis should appear to have, when the twin blows of Cluzet’s disappearance and Richelieu’s apparent assassination attempt on the Duke descend on the King.

“Are they gone?” a familiar voice interrupts.

Richelieu, walking into his office, starts badly. “I thought you’d left,” he says to the Musketeer, who is lounging behind Richelieu’s own desk.

Treville snorts. “I wanted to see if you’d actually do it.”

“Do what?”

“Send a single troop of men up against the Savoyan military in cold blood.”

“It’s not as if they’ll be meeting on the battlefield,” Richelieu says, oddly off-balance. There’s something about their conversation that he’s missing, something that went wrong from the very beginning, when Richelieu had first explained his plan to Treville. He knows it, and he means to find out what it is now. “I know of your disdain for spycraft. But a distraction is a time-honored technique of war, isn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly,” Treville says with an edge. “The Greeks were masters of the art. Just look at Troy.”

“Then I don’t understand…”

“I don’t like it,” Treville cuts Richelieu off. He takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “I don’t like that you’re doing it, like this, for this purpose – I don’t like anything about this, from the abduction to the attempted assassination. The only reason I gave you that letter is because you swore those men were volunteers.”

“Every one of them,” Richelieu promises again.

“And they’ve already left?”

“Yes.”

Treville sighs. “Then there’s nothing else to be said.”

He gets up from behind Richelieu’s desk and makes for the door. Richelieu is still standing just inside his office; Treville walks past him, and Richelieu thinks that he means to leave, to just walk out of Richelieu’s life as abruptly as he’d entered, and leave everything between them unresolved.

But Treville merely pushes the door closed, and checks that it’s locked.

“My dear?” Richelieu dares to ask, dares to use the endearment. He’s risking far more for France’s foreign policy. What does a little more risk in his personal life matter?

“What’s done is done,” Treville says. For a moment he looks terribly sad. Then the moment is gone, and he just looks resolved. “Now we wait. I thought we might as well make the waiting worthwhile.”

Treville walks past Richelieu to seat himself back behind the desk. He settles there, leaning back, legs akimbo, and raises a challenging eyebrow at Richelieu.

Richelieu still doesn’t understand what’s going on. But – as he reaches for Treville, and is urged to his knees – he thinks that he can afford to wait to find out.

* * *

The next three days pass in an agony of suspense. Paris seems to be holding its breath, though Richelieu knows it’s an illusion: only a handful of men know what drama is being carefully played out along the Savoyan border, three hundred miles south of Paris.

Richelieu sends the King out of the capitol. When news of Cluzet’s disappearance breaks, Savoy is going to be furious. They’ll overwhelm the Louvre with dispatches and ambassadors; every French noble and merchant who’s about to take a hit to their trade revenues is going to be howling. Louis, briefed, fully understands the necessity of Cluzet’s abduction. But he’s weak in the face of pressure. Richelieu can’t take the risk that he’ll say or do something to compromise France’s position.

Another hunting-party is just the thing. Richelieu even persuades Anne to go along with Louis, and defuses Marie’s threat to do the same. Maybe France will get an heir out of the trip.

The court’s departure leaves Treville with little to do. With the King and Queen gone, he avoids the Louvre, along with most other nobles. Marie de’ Medici is holding court with her favorites, and everyone else is anxious not to be seen there.

It leaves the Captain at a loose end. Perhaps it’s that, and the tension of waiting, that draws Treville closer to Richelieu. During the three days they wait for news, Treville is rarely far from the Palais-Cardinal. The whole thing seems to be weighing even more heavily on the Captain than on Richelieu. He wants to speak of it constantly, except that, when they do speak of it, he always cuts the conversation short.

They have more sex in those three days than they’ve had in the three months since the hunting-lodge. And yet, somehow, they’ve never been farther apart.

Three days after Boisrenard and Bernajoux have led their respective troops out of Paris, Treville is bent once again over Richelieu’s map of the border. Ten minutes ago the Musketeer had been on his knees, sucking Richelieu down like his life depended on it. Now he’s bracing himself against the map-table, staring at the flags marking Cluzet’s route blankly, every line of his body eloquent with tension. Nothing seems to calm him these days. As the hours pass with no new word, Treville ratchets tighter and tighter. Richelieu, by contrast, grows ever more calm. It’s a false serenity, only surface deep, but he can tell Treville is taking it at face value.

They’re feeding on each other. Something is going to break soon, but Richelieu will be damned if he knows what. He hasn’t the faintest idea what’s going through Treville’s head, not really, and he’s increasingly despairing of ever finding out.

A pounding on the door to Richelieu’s office startles Captain and Cardinal alike. “Your Eminence!” a voice cries through the door, tinged with urgency. Treville strides over and opens the door.

“The Savoyan courier rode into Paris two hours gone, your Eminence,” Jussac blurts out, practically running into the room. “He carried this letter.”

“Thank you, Jussac,” Richelieu says. He barely notices the Guardsman’s retreat; the letter in his hand isn’t sealed, and it contains the emergency code.

“What is it?” Treville cranes his head, trying to see. Richelieu tilts the paper so it’s visible to them both.

“It’s from Boisrenard,” Richelieu says distractedly. “This – ” he points to a specific phrase. “It’s an alert. Something has gone wrong…” he reads further. “He’s been detained at the Savoyan border, on his way out of Turin.”

Treville curses. “Does the Duke know?”

Richelieu reads on. “Suspicions only,” he says at last, letting the missive drop onto his desk. He begins to pace. “But enough for Victor Amadeus to detain Boisrenard’s men. Oh, it won’t last. I’ll send to tell the King, and the King will sign a letter, and the Duke will release the troop with fulsome apologies and a threadbare excuse for having taken them for brigands. Red cloaks and all.” Richelieu snorts. “The delay is the critical thing. There’s no way Boisrenard can be in position to distract the Savoyan forces in time for Bernajoux to kidnap Cluzet.”

Treville looks like he’s bitten a lemon. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he says.

Richelieu looks up from his pacing in surprise. “The political situation hasn’t changed. We still need Cluzet out of the way. But with this setback…” Richelieu mentally runs through the position of his forces and shakes his head. “I can’t get a large enough force in position in time.”

“Especially not one made of volunteers,” Treville mutters. “Can’t imagine you have enough of those lying around.”

Richelieu hears this only peripherally. Later he’ll recall it, and file it next to Treville’s earlier discontent with Richelieu’s plan, and begin to draw the correct conclusions. Right now his mind is too wholly occupied with problems of distance and travel. “If only I hadn’t send a full troop with Bernajoux,” he mutters. “A company leaving now from Paris could make it in time, if I had the men. But from where Bernajoux is… with Cluzet’s route so far afield already…” Richelieu pictures it again, the intersections of troop movement, and sees the lines fall short. “Bernajoux’s men couldn’t get there in time, and I’ve got no one left to send.”

“We’ll think of something else,” Treville says. He actually sounds somewhat relieved.

This time Richelieu hears the relief, and is frustrated enough to finally snap. “I know you don’t think much of kidnapping a foreign minister. But I thought you’d see that this is the only way!”

“I agreed, didn’t I?” Treville says tightly. “But it looks like it won’t work. So there’s no sense crying over it.”

Richelieu looks at him. Really looks at him. At Treville. The noble from Gascony. Richelieu’s lover. The man he doesn’t understand; may never understand. May be losing, even now.

The Captain of the King’s Musketeers.

Oh, Richelieu is such a fool.

“Musketeers,” he says in a tone of revelation.

Treville stiffens. “What?”

Richelieu smiles. “Musketeers! Oh, don’t look at me like that, my dear. I know very well that your men wouldn’t be any good at the actual abduction. No spycraft, I promised. But they would make an excellent distraction for the Savoyan military!”

Treville stares at Richelieu. Far from sharing Richelieu’s relief, he seems to have hardened into granite. “No,” he grits out. “Absolutely not.”

Richelieu is too giddy with relief to take heed of this warning. “It’s perfect,” he says. “They’re just as plausible as assassins as my Guards – why, more so, even. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I know you have a company here. They can leave immediately and be there in time.”

“No!” Treville shouts. Richelieu’s head snaps around. “I won’t ask them to do this!”

“To do _what_?” Richelieu demands, genuinely confused and well beyond exasperated. “Ride to the Savoyan border? Make camp? Carry incriminating papers? Conduct a training exercise and distract the Savoyan military? What exactly is it that your Musketeers will find so impossible?”

“I can’t believe you’d ask them to do this,” Treville says coldly. “I could hardly believe you were sending your own men – but then you turn around ask me to send mine? They _trust_ me, Richelieu! They’re important to me!”

“This is important to France!” Richelieu says back, trying to make Treville see, failing to understand what it is about this mission that’s somehow so distasteful to the Captain.

“Armand.” Treville steps forward, reaching out to where Richelieu is standing, halted in his pacing by the sheer force of Treville’s objections. Treville takes advantage of this to reach out to him, take Richelieu’s hands in his own and look searchingly up at Richelieu. “Please. You’re not – I know you want me to think you’re not like this. If it’s true, if any of this – us – has meant anything to you, then turn aside. Find another way. Don’t ask me to do this.”

Richelieu looks back at Treville, honestly confused. Treville’s reactions have made no sense from beginning to end. He knows he’s missing something, knows it’s important, but the urgency of time is beating against him and the consequences of failure press him. The Duchess’ exile or death, Savoy in the arms of Spain, the war to be fought along France’s border. These concerns demand his full attention. Out of time and out of ideas, Richelieu falls back on his old standby. The truth. Which, he has so often been told, will set him free.

“I have no other way,” he says.

Treville is still looking up at him. Richelieu can see the exact moment the light of passion drains from the Captain’s face. Treville’s whole body slumps, looking unaccountably betrayed and somehow very, very tired.

“Treville, what do you want me to say?” Richelieu is frustrated by the Captain’s attitude. For Christ’s sake, it’s not like he’s asking the man to engage in spycraft, or something else Treville has shown he finds distasteful. Only to dispatch a company of Musketeers as a feint to distract their enemy. It’s is a tactic that Treville would use every day in an actual campaign and twice on Sundays. What is the problem?

“Nothing,” Treville mutters, looking away. He sounds defeated. “You’re right, of course. The border is vital to France. This will save many more lives than it costs. I’ll send the troop.”

Richelieu nods cautiously. “Here,” he says, opening a drawer of his desk and pulling out a packet of papers. It’s a copy of the plans he’d sent with Boisrenard. It includes instructions on where to cross the Savoyan border, copies of the assassination order for the Duke for Treville’s men to ‘accidentally’ leave behind, and the safe routes to take once back in France to evade the Savoyan military and leave them searching fruitlessly for assassins that no longer exist. “Take these.” Richelieu presses the bundle into Treville’s hands.

“Right,” Treville says flatly. His agreement should set Richelieu’s mind at ease, but the Captain’s voice and posture all scream that something is wrong. Richelieu casts his mind about for something to help.

“Jussac,” he suggests in a burst of inspiration. “I’ll send him with the King’s letter to free Boisrenard, but with couriers riding to and fro, his Majesty won’t have it ready until morning. Perhaps Jussac can meet with your company’s commander and offer his expertise? He’s overseen one such mission before.”

“No thank you,” Treville says through gritted teeth. “I think it will be better if I handle this matter internally. It’ll be bad enough without it getting out that I’m doing this on your orders.”

“My _orders_?” Richelieu frowns. “You agreed – ”

“Oh, yes, I agreed.” Treville’s expression is thunderous. “I’m in this up to my neck, Cardinal, just like you.”

Worse and worse. “Treville – ” Perhaps unwisely, Richelieu reaches back for him.

Treville recoils like he’s been struck. “I think it’s best if you call me by my title,” he says icily. “If you ever have occasion to call me anything again, that is.”

“Won’t I?” Richelieu asks softly.

Treville’s expression flickers; from thunderous, it goes through several emotions quickly, dismay and betrayal and a breathtaking regret, before settling back into anger. “I wish I would never have to see you again,” he breathes, faint but entirely heartfelt, and without another word he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

Richelieu can only stand and watch him go, mouth open in entirely undignified dismay, and try to figure out when exactly everything had gone so far wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter spent the weekend kicking my butt. I hope it lives up to expectations.

Richelieu has every intention of going to find Treville. Just as soon as the Captain’s temper has had time to cool and Richelieu has seen to his final preparations for Cluzet’s abduction.

Unfortunately, those final preparations take a turn for the disastrous. The Chancellor’s plans change at the last minute, very suspiciously. Richelieu finds himself simultaneously coordinating a new on-the-fly abduction, different travel routes for Milady and Bernajoux’s forces, an entirely new jail and jailer – he can no longer trust the old one – and the beginnings of a mole hunt within his own organization. Cluzet may possibly have changed his plans on a whim, but it’s far too conveniently timed for Richelieu to overlook the possibility of betrayal.

Three days later, Richelieu is dictating orders in the predawn grey of a field command post three hours out of Paris, pacing to keep himself awake. The Palais-Cardinal would be more comfortable, but the added communications delay of remaining within Paris is unacceptable given the distance information already must travel to reach him. He hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours and he’s wound well past tense with the effort of keeping all the different elements of this delicate operation in balance. The open wound of Treville’s rejection festers, unattended, beneath the surface.

Any moment now he should receive the final confirmation that Cluzet is safely incarcerated. And he’s _this close_ to finding the traitor within his own organization. He’s been in constant communication with Milady, and she’s on alert, awaiting only a name.

But Cluzet’s abduction must come first. Assuming that the spy hasn’t already spoiled that. Assuming that Treville’s men do as Richelieu needs. Too many assumptions, and Richelieu hasn’t seen or heard from Treville since the Captain had stormed out of the Palais-Cardinal three days ago. He knows the Musketeers left Paris in time, but his watchers haven’t yet reported their return. That, too, worries him. They should have passed through Richelieu’s spy net by now. Even if they’d been avoiding major towns close to the border they should have had to stop and change horses, but there’s been no word.

The sound of approaching hoof-beats is almost a relief. A Guardsman – Jussac, returned from his mission freeing Boisrenard from detainment – rides up in plain clothes and slides off his horse almost before the animal has come to a stop. Another Guardsman grabs the reins and leads the blowing horse away. Richelieu turns towards Jussac expectantly. This should be the information he’s waited for.

Jussac produces a letter. Richelieu reaches for it eagerly, but then pauses with his hand in mid-air. Jussac looks pale, and he seems to be pleading with the Cardinal using only his face and eyes.

“Leave us,” Richelieu says abruptly to the post at large. Immediately the room empties. Jussac remains.

“What is it?” Richelieu asks, taking the missive and cracking the seal. He skims through it quickly. It's from Milady, of course, but nothing here seems to justify Jussac's alarm. Cluzet is safely apprehended and stored behind bars, where he will remain as long as the interests of France require it. Milady is fully at liberty to pursue the Savoyan spy in Richelieu’s organization as soon as Richelieu has a name. Everything seems to be falling into place.

“The distraction,” Jussac says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “The troop of Musketeers – ”

“Yes, what about them?” Richelieu tenses. The feeling of unease he’s been repressing since his conversation with Treville comes flooding suddenly back to the fore. He knows in his bones, with the instinct of an old campaigner, that something has gone terribly wrong.

“The Savoyans caught them by surprise on the wrong side of the border,” Jussac whispers. “They were almost wiped out.”

For a moment Richelieu is convinced he’s heard Jussac wrong. It simply doesn’t make any sense. Wiped out? With so many escape routes? With remounts available at Lyon? Wait – “On the _Savoyan_ side of the border?” Richelieu repeats incredulously. “They didn’t even make it back across?”

“The Musketeers weren’t fleeing,” Jussac goes on. “They _made camp_ in Savoy. They were all asleep, except for two guards. One of them survived. The rest...”

 _“What?”_ Richelieu stares, utterly baffled. This is incomprehensible. Why would they make camp? They were supposed to dart across, be seen, drop their incriminating bundles, and flee. They were supposed to have a head start. They were supposed to be _prepared._ This sounds as if they were sent, flat-footed, into an ambush.

A new thought strikes Richelieu suddenly. “Captain Treville?” he demands, exerting all of his considerable self-control to keep his voice level. He can’t think why Treville wouldn’t have prepared his Musketeers, unless – unless –

“In Paris,” Jussac says. “He’s the one – he got word this morning. He sent me out to tell you.”

In Paris? How can it be? It’s as if Treville had known this had been going to happen. But if he’d known –

“The Captain bade me tell you,” Jussac finishes, “that everything was done in accordance with your orders, and he hopes you go to the Devil.”

The ground falls away under Richelieu’s feet. Sudden understanding breaks in on him and he swears, fervent and low.

 _I wish I would never have to see you again,_ Treville had said.

Now Richelieu understands why.

“Saddle my horse,” Richelieu orders tightly. “I’m going to Paris.”

* * *

Fortunately for France’s national security, the name of the spy in Richelieu’s organization is handed to him the moment he leaves the command post to take horse to Paris. Richelieu had actually forgotten completely about that particular issue in his overwhelming dismay over the Musketeers’ massacre. He calls for pen and paper, scrawls a few words to Milady, and encloses the spy’s report. Richelieu hands the lot to Cahusac with orders to make for a certain seamstress’ in Tours, and puts the matter out of his mind.

The value of servants like Milady in such a time cannot be overstated. Richelieu can trust her to handle the matter with intelligence, discretion and ruthlessness. That attended to, and Cluzet safely behind bars, Richelieu can turn his entire attention to the matter of exactly how badly he has failed Treville.

Richelieu strains to remember his exact words. _I’ll be sending a troop of men to the Savoyan border,_ he’d said. And, _they’ll appear to be staging military exercises._ But try as he does, he can’t recall the statements that would have convinced Treville that Richelieu had been sending his men to their deaths.

No wonder Treville had rejected Richelieu’s offer to have Jussac coach his men. Coach them in what, Treville would have been thinking – the best way to have their throats cut while they slept? Jussac’s full report, delivered on horseback as they travelled, is devastating in its detail. Richelieu has been doing this a long time, and he’s done many terrible things, but this turns his stomach.

Small wonder Treville had been so distraught. Small wonder Treville had recoiled from Richelieu in such disgust.

And yet, underneath it, Richelieu becomes aware of a kernel of anger. How had Treville been so ready to believe this of Richelieu? That he would order his own Guards to throw their lives away so uselessly – and then, when circumstances changed, order Treville’s men’s deaths in the same way? For no point, for no purpose, and in spite of Treville’s explicit pleas? A soldier risks his life by nature, true, and sometimes a commander has no choice but to send a man to their death. But not like this. Never like this.

Yet Treville had believed Richelieu capable of it.

 _There is nothing I won’t do for France,_ Richelieu had said. When had that become a declaration of villainy? When had patriotism become monstrous?

But then – worse – Treville had gone along with it. Where had the stubborn, intractable man Richelieu had thought he’d found been? Why hadn’t Treville fought back? Argued? Why hadn’t Treville told Richelieu where he could stuff his orders?

Richelieu thinks, savagely, that he might have known something had been wrong the moment Treville obeyed him. He’d never done a single thing Richelieu wanted him to in his life. Of all the times to start!

But then, unbidden, he recalls Treville’s face, after Richelieu had told him that there could be no other way. Betrayal. Resignation. Loyalty. Not to Richelieu, of course – to France.

 _One man against the safety of a nation,_ Treville had said, the first time, when he’d agreed to write Boisrenard a letter of authority. Then the second time he’d said, wretched and resigned, _It will save many more lives than it costs._

 _I boxed him into it,_ Richelieu realizes. _I told him over and over again how vital this was – how many lives it would save. I told him the King authorized it. In the end he must have thought it would be worth it._

Worth twenty lives. Worth betraying his own men. Worth…

 _I know you want me to think you’re not like this,_ Treville had begged. _If it’s true, if any of this – us – has meant anything to you, then turn aside. Find another way. Don’t ask me to do this._

Richelieu grits his teeth. He’d been so focused on the problem at hand that that one had sailed right by him. It had been an appeal to Richelieu’s feelings. A sign that Treville had been beginning, however slowly, to see something more in Richelieu than the cold, calculating automaton he’d always been wary of. That he might be more than just the bogeyman of France. That he might be someone Treville could trust.

And Richelieu had ridden right over it. He’d ordered Treville to betray his own morals, and all but told him that Treville’s desires wouldn’t be safe with Richelieu, that they would always come a distant second to Richelieu’s own priorities.

Twenty Musketeers. He’ll be lucky if Treville doesn’t shoot him on the spot.

Richelieu can’t think of another time he managed something this badly, but he devotes the rest of the trip to Paris trying to remember one anyway.

* * *

Richelieu bursts into Treville’s hotel like the vanguard of an invading army. The Captain hadn’t been in his office at the Musketeers’ barracks, and the King’s valet hasn’t seen the man all day. Treville has gone to ground, then, presumably to lick his wounds and wish all manner of vengeance on Richelieu’s head.

The court holds a scattering of Musketeers, all of whom look furiously at the Cardinal and his men. One of them is Athos. Treville’s second steps forward, one hand on his sword-hilt.

“The Captain isn’t to be disturbed,” he says icily.

“Unfortunately I must see him,” Richelieu retorts. Next to him, Jussac is bristling, ready for a fight.

“He is available to no one,” Athos repeats.

“I am not anyone,” Richelieu says. “I must see him at once.”

“Twenty Musketeers are dead,” Athos says cuttingly. “Aramis is gravely wounded. Your petty affairs can wait.”

“Those Musketeers should not be dead!” Richelieu shouts. His fury slips its leash and leaks out to color his words. Athos’ eyes actually widen.

Richelieu controls himself with an effort, lowering his voice. “If you do not let me up there,” he hisses, “I cannot be sure that nothing like this never happens again.”

Athos presses his lips together and pins Richelieu with a searching gaze. Richelieu permits it, gesturing Jussac to patience at his side.

“Go on,” Athos says abruptly, stepping aside. Two or three of the other Musketeers in the court start forward with cries of protest. Athos turns his head to pin them all with the same gaze he’d just used on Richelieu. “I said he could go,” Athos says dangerously.

The other Musketeers visibly think better of arguing with Athos. They settle back into position, still watching the Cardinal with undisguised hostility.

“Thank you,” Richelieu says sincerely, moving towards the stairs. Jussac follows only as far as the base of the stairs. He takes up position there, guarding the staircase, eyeing the Musketeers warily.

“Cardinal,” Athos calls.

Richelieu doesn’t slow his ascent, but he does turn his head, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Fix this,” Athos says. “Or else, if you ever set foot here again, I will kill you myself.”

Richelieu nods. Then he pushes open the door to Treville’s antechamber, and goes inside.

Treville is within, seated behind his desk, head bowed. Paperwork is spread over the desk, but it doesn’t seem like he’s actually paying attention to any of it. His face is in his hands; at his elbow, a half-empty glass holds brandy. A bottle stands nearby, considerably more than half empty.

“Go away, Athos,” he says, voice muffled.

“I am not Athos,” Richelieu says, “and I will not go away.”

Treville jerks upright so quickly his elbow knocks the glass to the floor. It shatters there, glass shards and brandy drops flying everywhere. Treville barely seems to notice.

“You,” he whispers. Then he shoots to his feet, fury painting every feature. “I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,” he says, voice cold and dangerous, more intimidating than if he’d shouted. “Get out.”

“Treville,” Richelieu says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “There’s been a terrible mistake.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Treville cries, voice edging up in volume. “I can’t believe – I listened to you. I _trusted_ you, that this was necessary for France. But now twenty Musketeers are dead, and I’m having a great deal of trouble remembering why I shouldn’t spit you where you stand.”

“Why are they dead?” Richelieu asks. It’s not what he means to say. He means to approach this more delicately, lead in by explaining the nature of the misunderstanding. He knows that accusations won’t get them anywhere. But the same unaccountable anger, the same _betrayal_ that has been plaguing Richelieu since he’d first got the news, pushes to the fore. He demands, “Why didn’t you _warn_ them?”

Treville’s face works. “ _What_?” he breathes. “How can you ask me that? It was your plan!”

“This was never my plan!” Richelieu cries. “They were supposed to be a distraction! Not a herd of tethered sheep!”

“You said the Duke must believe they were going to kill him!” Treville shouts.

“And you accomplished this by _sending copies of their orders and positions to Savoy?_ ” Richelieu had meant to keep his voice calm, but by the end of that speech, he’s shouting too.

Treville stares at Richelieu. The look on his face – lost, shattered – is heartbreaking.

“How else was I supposed to do it?” he says finally. He’s not shouting any more. In fact, his voice is barely above a whisper. Richelieu’s ears ring in the sudden silence.

“You were supposed to give _your_ men the false orders,” Richelieu says heavily. “Have them make camp nearby. Send scouts across the border to draw the attention of a Savoyan patrol. Your men flee back to camp, leave a few things behind… including the orders.”

Treville goes pale. “And then – ”

“Then your men remount at Lyon and head safely back to Paris. The entire Savoyan military would be combing the border for days looking for an invasion force that wasn’t there.” Richelieu swallows. “Plenty of time for Bernajoux to abduct Cluzet. And no proof for Savoy, except a few letters, which could easily be forged.”

Treville’s throat works. He has to clear it before he can speak. “When – when you offered to have Jussac help coach them – ”

“He’s run one of these missions for me before. He knows how to handle it.”

Treville stares at him in mute agony. The Cardinal has to look away. Treville’s stricken gaze is too much to bear. Richelieu wants to stop talking, wants to rewind and delete the entirety of the past few days. He certainly doesn’t want to ask his next question.

But he has to know.

“Did you read the papers I gave you?” Richelieu asks, still looking away. “The packet I gave you, when you left the last time? It explained all of this. It had copies of the orders and the escape routes. But you act like you’ve never heard it before.”

“No,” Treville whispers. “I thought it was… I thought the papers were of a personal nature.” He laughs hollowly. One hand gropes absently for the space where the brandy glass used to be. “I burned them without looking.”

Richelieu strides forward and seizes that grasping hand before it finds the bottle. The last thing Treville needs right now is liquor. Treville seems not to understand this, struggling against Richelieu like an animal in a trap, until Richelieu is forced to restrain Treville more completely. Once pinned, Treville goes suddenly limp. Richelieu suspects it’s a ploy at first. But when he looks down, Treville’s gaze has gone cloudy, distant and unfocused.

“You weren’t sending them to their deaths,” Treville whispers.

“No.”

“I couldn’t believe you would do such a thing at first,” Treville goes on. “Even at the King’s orders. But you said all your men were volunteers. I didn’t understand why someone would volunteer for this, but then I thought – you have money, you have influence. I know men who would sell their lives for their families. I thought maybe it was like that.”

Richelieu sighs. “None of them were going to die,” he says. “Or at least, they were no more likely to die on this mission than they are on any other dangerous mission, and they signed up for that when they joined the Guards.”

“When Cluzet’s plans changed, though,” Treville goes on, apparently not having heard Richelieu. “When you said you couldn’t get a company there in time, but I could, and you asked me to send Musketeers – that’s when I thought – ”

“That I was a monster,” Richelieu finishes, unable to entirely keep the bitterness out of his tone. After all, why not? Why should Treville be any different from anyone else in France, in Louis’ court? They’d been enemies for much longer than they’d been – whatever it is they’d been. Not lovers. Not if Treville had been thinking this about Richelieu the entire time.

No wonder Treville had been so hesitant, so resistant, so insistent on examining every one of Richelieu’s gifts and gestures for hidden meaning and hidden hooks. He’d never considered that Richelieu might genuinely respect and desire him. He’d always been waiting for the moment Richelieu would betray him.

And Richelieu had played right into that. Had given Treville exactly what he’d expected.

Disgusted with them both, Richelieu releases his grip on Treville and takes a step back. He suddenly can’t bear to touch Treville any longer. And he makes no doubt Treville feels just the same.

They were doomed before they’d even begun. Richelieu wishes he were surprised.

“Yes, I thought that,” Treville admits. He steps forward, following Richelieu. This close, their height difference is pronounced. Treville tips his head back, looking up into Richelieu’s eyes. “I let myself be fooled. Fooled by my own fears. How was I supposed to believe that you really meant any of it? You play with men and millions, and drop your toys when you’re done like we’re all made of wood. Even at best I would never have been more than a passing diversion.”

Someone makes a fierce noise. After a moment, Richelieu realizes it had been he.

“You are not a diversion,” he says. _You are everything_ , he doesn’t say. What’s the point? Treville won’t believe him.

And yet, Treville advances another step, back into Richelieu’s personal space. “Tell me again you didn’t mean for them to die.”

Richelieu doesn’t dare hope. But he gives Treville the promise he demands. “As I love the Lord, my King and my life,” Richelieu swears, “I never meant for them to die.”

“Cluzet?”

Richelieu blinks, thrown again, this time by the change of topic. “Securely imprisoned,” he says, backing up still again.

“The spy in your organization?” Forward.

How had the man known about that? “Being attended to.” Backward.

“By whom?” Forward.

“Milady.” Backward. Belatedly Richelieu realizes what’s going on – where Treville’s herding him. They’ve passed through the second door from his antechamber, the one that leads to Treville’s private chambers. Richelieu has only been here once or twice, on business. He hasn’t yet had the time – or enough of Treville’s trust – to upgrade the rooms’ security. Not enough to allow Richelieu to feel comfortable indulging in anything.

And even with the evidence of his senses, he can’t quite believe that Treville is serious. Nothing has changed. Richelieu is still the man who ordered the death of the Savoyan courier. He’s still the man who will do it again, if France’s security is at stake.

“Milady will kill the spy,” Richelieu says bluntly. He needs to remind Treville of exactly who he is, before either of them make the mistake of forgetting again.

Treville only nods. “This would be the spy that conspired to betray the King’s sister, start a war between France and Savoy, and cost the lives of God knows how many?”

“Yes,” Richelieu admits slowly.

“The one who, if you leave them alive, will try to do it again?”

“Yes,” Richelieu repeats, watching Treville’s face carefully. Not a flicker of remorse, or dismay, or horror appears.

“You trust Milady to do the job right, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Treville says calmly. “Then you’re at leisure.”

When Treville leans forward and pushes Richelieu back into the bed, Richelieu’s still not comfortable, but he no longer cares.

They haven’t had many encounters in the grand scheme of things, but Richelieu had been paying attention, and he’d thought he’d known what kind of lover Treville is. Now Richelieu realizes Treville has been holding back. Out of concern, out of fear, out of a lack of trust – or perhaps all three? There has always been a sense of removal, as if Treville had been holding himself back from the proceedings. Richelieu had put it down to Treville’s inhibitions. Treville had shown, amply, how uncomfortable he still is with his own urges and desires.

The man in bed with Richelieu now isn’t inhibited. And he’s not removed. He falls on Richelieu like a drowning man, capturing Richelieu’s lips and keeping them even as his hands start to roam over Richelieu’s body. Richelieu is still wearing campaign gear. Treville undoes buckles and straps deftly. He has to break the kiss long enough to tug various pieces off the Cardinal, but each time Treville dives back in with a fierceness calculated to stun.

Richelieu himself doesn’t manage to get more than Treville’s sword-belt and bandolier off of him. The Cardinal’s not a timid man, but he yields before the force of Treville’s passion. Treville clearly approves, manhandling Richelieu into the position he wants him in – supine, legs drawn up and apart, arms akimbo – and growling when Richelieu tries to reach for him. Treville catches Richelieu’s wrists in his broad, calloused palms, pressing them down into the bed and squeezing until Richelieu takes the hint, goes limp under Treville.

Treville rewards this with an approving rumble, then slithers the length of Richelieu’s body to put his mouth between Richelieu’s legs.

Richelieu gasps, every muscle trembling between the conflicting urges to thrust upward and remain lax and still, as Treville had wanted. Treville’s talented mouth works wonders on Richelieu’s heated flesh, and a moan escapes him almost without his conscious knowledge. Immediately his gaze goes to the door of Treville’s quarters – closed, thank God, but who knows how much of a barrier it is to sound –

“It’s metal at the core, and the walls are doubly thick,” Treville says roughly, pulling off to follow Richelieu’s gaze. Richelieu whines at the loss of that slick, tight heat, and Treville chuckles. “I do have _some_ self-preservation instincts, thanks. And you’re not the first man who’s been in here.”

Richelieu’s gaze snaps from the door to Treville’s face. He can feel something ugly showing on his own face, something dark and fierce and furious at the thought of anyone else touching _his_ Musketeer.

Treville laughs throatily. “The only one who’s ever meant a thing was Gasteau,” he says. “And you know how that turned out. You’ll do better, won’t you?”

Richelieu opens his mouth to say something that will no doubt embarrass him thoroughly when he remembers it later, but will nonetheless be heartfelt. _I’ll never hurt you,_ possibly, though that’s already been proven false. _I’ll kill anyone who ever touches you,_ would be better, closer to the truth. _I’ll do anything for you,_ feels disturbingly true. _I’ll never let you go._

As it happens, though, Richelieu will never know what he'd been about to say. All he gets out is “I’ll – ”, before Treville has taken him back down his throat, and all capacity for higher thought is entirely short-circuited.

A subjective eternity later, Treville is swallowing around him while Richelieu groans, shuddering in orgasm. When it ends Treville pulls off, licking his lips. His smile still has more than an edge of adrenaline.

“No, don’t move,” Treville instructs, pressing a hand to Richelieu’s belly when the Cardinal would have reached for Treville. The Captain is rummaging in a small cedar chest with his other hand. The long, thick line visible in his trousers is proof that Treville isn’t done quite yet.

Treville drops a small pot on the bedsheets and fumbles with his own buckles. He doesn’t bother undressing. He merely fishes himself out and holds himself in hand, stroking idly, while his other hand pushes Richelieu’s legs back and up. His fingers disappear from view, and when Richelieu feels them next, they’re nudging at his entrance, slippery and wet.

“ _Deus meus_ ,” Richelieu gasps, and his head falls back on the bed.

He’s done this before, of course, but it has been a very long time. In his youth he had opportunity and anonymity for fooling around. Then, in the seminary, he'd been chaste for a time by necessity. It hadn’t been until he'd been able to establish himself in Paris, First Minister to the King, that Richelieu felt secure enough to resume his preferred form of sexual congress. And at that point he'd become far too powerful for anyone to approach him from a position of strength. His lovers have all been submissive. He’d never even realized how much he’d missed the touch of an equal.

Treville seems to sense this, seems to realize that Richelieu is trembling from more than just sensation and the latent emotions of the past few days. “Shh,” he murmurs reassuringly. His fingers are gentle as they breach Richelieu. “Just breathe.”

Treville takes his time. The fierce, possessive urgency from before has eased off, though Richelieu can still see it when he looks into Treville’s eyes, banked but present. Richelieu thanks God that Treville no longer seems to want to hurt him; from this position, Treville could do it so very easily, and so very deeply. Instead Treville goes slowly, working his way up from one finger to two, then three.

Richelieu’s too old to get hard again, though he wishes he could, imagines how it would be if he’d met Treville in both of their youths. But it’s pleasant to lie here like this, to enjoy the sensations without pressure or expectation, and to give pleasure in return.

When Treville finally presses inside, he does so with a long sigh that seems to come straight from his soul. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back, and in his face, so beset by emotion, Richelieu sees for a moment the face of God.

It’s over very quickly after that. Treville thrusts hard and fast, coming inside Richelieu with another sigh. He watches Richelieu the entire time, and Richelieu sees the moment when the last of the inner turmoil is extinguished, leaving only a deep sense of peace that seems to spread out from them both to fill the entire room.

Outside there are other people, the affairs of King and country that so enmesh them both; somewhere outside are duties and cares and appearances that must be maintained. But for the moment none of those things matter. Richelieu reaches up to guide Treville down to the sheets by his side. He gathers up the Captain – Treville comes willingly, his earlier aggression gentled – and tucks him securely under Richelieu’s arm. From there, the Cardinal can protect him against anything, even the wrath of God.

“There will still have to be a reckoning,” Treville murmurs aloud.

“I never meant for anyone to die.”

“But they’re still dead all the same.” Treville sighs. “And it’s just as much my fault as anyone’s. I was so busy being furious with you over one death that I jumped to the wrong conclusion, and twenty Musketeers paid the price.”

“I’m so sorry,” Richelieu says. It’s utterly inadequate, but even his power has limits, and the resurrection of the dead is solely God’s purview.

“At least Cluzet is safely jailed?”

“Cluzet, yes. But not his informant.”

Treville tenses. “I thought you said Milady was taking care of that.”

“Milady is taking care of the Guard who gave the Duchess’ name to Savoy. But she can’t touch the person who suborned the Guard.”

Treville yawns. He looks tired, both from the lovemaking and the emotional rollercoaster; it takes him a few extra moments to put it together. When he does, though, his eyes open wide.

“The Queen Mother.”

“Yes.” Richelieu lets his arm tighten around Treville. Marie de’ Medici may have lost this one, but she’s far from neutralized. And she will be searching for ways to hurt Richelieu.

Something is going to have to be done.

“You’ll take care of her,” Treville says. And then, incredibly, he relaxes. As if it’s just that simple.

The Queen Mother’s not stupid. She may have guessed Richelieu’s preferences when he had been her ally, and her spies will be looking for every advantage. She could conceivably discover Treville. But Treville just yawns again, body relaxing further against Richelieu’s. As if Treville trusts Richelieu to protect him.

As if he’s not afraid.

Richelieu looks down at Treville. He’s astonished, and grateful, and not a little humbled. No other lover has ever made him work so hard for their trust. But from none of them has it been such a precious gift.

It’s an unusual time and place for a revelation. But here, in Treville’s bed, with the deaths of twenty Musketeers on his hands and the looming threat of all-out war with Marie de’ Medici on the horizon, Richelieu learns exactly how deeply he loves Treville. Realizes how much he’s done all along. From the moment he’d kissed Treville in the hunting lodge – from the moment he’d caught Treville, swooning and helpless during the duel with Gasteau, and thought he'd been about to watch Treville die – even from the moment in the forest, when Gasteau had exposed Treville’s secret and opened Richelieu’s eyes to the true value of the Captain of the Musketeers.

It’s taken Richelieu an unconscionably long time to figure it out. But it takes him no time at all to embrace it. Now that he knows, he’s committed in an instant. In return for the gift of Treville’s trust, Richelieu makes a silent promise. He will do anything, absolutely anything it takes to make sure Treville is safe, and happy, and unafraid.

Judging solely by the present moment, he’s not _completely_ unsuited to the task.

“I was so sure I knew you,” Treville murmurs, sounding half-asleep already. “Or at least that I knew everything I needed to know about you. Pride goeth… and it was so seductive, having the moral outrage on my side for a change.”

“I should have realized what was going on sooner,” Richelieu offers. “I should have sought you out…”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

When Richelieu only blinks, Treville nods, as if that’s an answer.

“I’m used to it,” Richelieu tries.

“Maybe that’s your real problem,” Treville says. “You think you have to solve everything – you think you _can_ solve everything – and you lose sight of your humanity along the way.” He sighs, burrowing somehow closer. “God, I don’t know. Can we start again, do you think?”

“Anything,” Richelieu promises.

Treville gives a little laugh, muffled against Richelieu’s shoulder.

“What?” Richelieu asks curiously.

“It just occurred to me,” Treville says. “You really mean it when you say things like that to me.”

“Of course I do,” Richelieu says, surprised.

“Another piece of the mystique bites the dust.”

“I’ll never lie to you.”

“It’ll take me some time to believe that.”

“Will you try?”

For a long moment there’s no answer. Treville’s breaths even out, and Richelieu thinks that the Captain’s fallen asleep already.

But. “Yes,” Treville says suddenly. Decisively.

“Yes?” Richelieu repeats, craning his neck to look down at his Captain’s countenance. He’s heard the word a million times before – very few people say _no_ to him – but it means more now than it ever has across a treaty table or over a handshake in a back alley. He wants to hear it again. “Yes to what, my dear?”

“To you,” Treville murmurs. And then, with the suddenness of the career soldier, he falls asleep. Long breaths become little snuffling snores, and his grip on Richelieu relaxes with the lassitude of sleep.

Richelieu tightens his arm around Treville to make up for it. “Yes,” Richelieu repeats, brushing a kiss into Treville’s hair, before allowing his own eyes to slip closed.

Perhaps that’s the best promise either of them can make to each other, after all.

* * *

Richelieu awakens with the dawn, automatic and easy. It’s an old habit. He used to wake up at sunrise every day. There’s no longer a real need to do so; he’s not at seminary, or on campaign, and a man in his position can do as he chooses. Indeed, these days, many mornings he sleeps straight through. He’s so often up late attending to matters of state.

This morning he wakes up, though, like the boy he’d once been. He stretches and smiles, feeling unaccountably light.

It won’t last. The world’s still turning, and when its realities intrude Treville’s going to remember that twenty Musketeers are dead. Last night aside, Richelieu doesn’t fool himself into thinking the Captain’s anywhere near forgiving either of them for it. But Richelieu enjoys the ease while it’s here, and doesn’t stir beyond his initial stretch. To do so would risk waking the man in bed with him. Soon enough they’ll both have to rise and attend to their duties, but for the moment Richelieu can lay there and watch the play of early morning sunlight over Treville’s face, relaxed and content.

Treville has an old campaigner’s instinct, though, and stirs under Richelieu’s gaze far too quickly. He doesn’t snap awake, just blinks his eyes open and yawns. Richelieu warms further at this proof of Treville’s subconscious trust. The Captain no longer percieves the Cardinal as an automatic threat.

“Good morning,” Richelieu murmurs, stealing a kiss.

“G’Morning,” Treville agrees, yawning again.

Richelieu smiles. He’s weighing the relative merits of breakfast versus sex when a loud clatter from the courtyard snatches the ease from the air.

Treville’s eyes fly wide and he practically leaps from the bed. Richelieu follows more slowly. It takes him an extra moment to remember that Treville had said his private chambers were sound-resistant. For them to have heard such a loud crash from the courtyard –

Treville motions Richelieu out of sight of the door, then opens it the smallest crack.

“ – know he’s here!” an unfamiliar voice is shouting belligerently. “And I have orders to arrest – ”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Athos’ cultured tones respond. He doesn’t bother with belligerence; the threat is open and naked in his voice.

“Take it however you like,” the first voice snaps. “I have an arrest warrant, and my men say that Treville is here. If you won’t fetch him out for me, I’ll find him myself – ”

The voice is cut off again as Treville eases the door closed. He looks at Richelieu, still on the bed. Their eyes meet.

“Mon Dieu,” Treville whispers, terror electrifying the air around him. Richelieu wants to reach for him. Gather him up in his arms and promise him that there’s nothing to fear.

Foolish, and fatal, and here they are, both wasting what precious little time Athos is stalling to give Treville –

They both leap into action simultaneously. Treville’s chambers are a picture of debauchery; there’s no hope of concealing that Treville bedded _someone_ here last night. If questions are asked, the lack of any woman entering Treville’s lodgings would become apparent. Therefore the arresting invaders must not enter this room. If they can meet them outside, in Treville’s office, they can prevent that.

But they cannot go out there naked. Richelieu snatches up his smallclothes; Treville is already tugging on his breeches. They won’t be able to hear approaching footsteps through the thick walls. An advantage of Richelieu’s echo chamber that Treville doesn’t have. If they survive this, Richelieu will be making some upgrades.

Treville starts digging through the pile of blankets on the floor, searching for his cloak. “You stay here,” he says, breathlessly.

“What?” Richelieu pauses in the act of pulling on his surcoat. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a sword-thrust. My Musketeers saw you come in last night. What would they think if you’re still here this morning?” Treville throws the cloak around his shoulders, nearly catching his musket in his haste.

Another burst of noise can be heard even through the sound-dampening. Metal clanging on metal. They have only minutes.

 _Think_ , Richelieu commands himself. “All right – I left and came back. There’s an exit from your courtyard; your Musketeers wouldn’t have seen.”

“Maybe you left that way, but why would you come back? And what about Jussac?” Treville’s eyes widen suddenly. “Oh, God, has he been here all night? Is he down there right now – ”

“He’ll have left after an hour. He’s not stupid. And you mustn’t be either. _Listen._ I left after midnight last night, through the back way, which is why no one saw me. Then I came back early this morning. We had more to discuss. All right?”

“No. No, it’s not a good enough excuse – my Musketeers aren’t stupid either, if they find you here – Richelieu, _Armand_ , promise me you’ll stay hidden.” Treville’s gaze is fixed on him, pleading eloquently, better than words.

The shouting is getting louder. The party is coming up the stairs. Richelieu grits his teeth. “But what if it’s politics?” he demands. What he really means is _what if it’s Marie de’ Medici?_ What he really wants to say is _what if you need me to protect you?_ Once Treville goes out into his office alone, Richelieu’s ability to intervene vanishes. For them both to be found in the Captain’s office, discussing matters of state, is one thing. For Treville to be in his office, and then Richelieu to appear from his private chambers – quite a different thing altogether.

“If it’s politics you’ll do more for me elsewhere than here,” Treville says. He snatches up his sword. “Please,” he says again.

What can Richelieu say to that? Treville even makes a good point. If Richelieu isn’t known to be present during the following scene, he’s untainted by it, whatever it is. He gains the advantage of appearing to be a neutral party.

And the pounding on Treville’s office door says that they’re out of time.

“Be careful,” Richelieu says helplessly. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“I won’t,” Treville promises, and, astonishingly, pulls Richelieu in for a quick kiss. Then he straightens his uniform hastily and goes out into his office. He barely has time to fall into his chair and pick up some irrelevant report before the banging on his door starts again, and the knob rattles with impatience.

Richelieu quickly pulls the door from Treville’s chambers closed, except for a tiny crack – enough to hear, barely enough to see – and fades into the shadows.

“Come in,” Treville calls, getting the words out bare seconds before the door is flung open anyway.

Men pour into the room. Three of them are Musketeers. Athos, who had been here last night, and another two Richelieu recognizes, Besson and Cazal. The remaining five are wearing the uniform of the King’s Guards.

Except for the one in the lead. He’s wearing Marie’s colors. Richelieu recognizes him as Captain Vincent, the head of Marie’s personal guard. And, according to his information, her spymaster – and lover.

Richelieu’s instincts were right. It _is_ Marie. And he’s stuck in here, where he can’t even swear for fear of being heard –

“Captain Treville?” Vincent demands.

Behind his desk, Treville lays his report down – taking his time about it – and raises one disbelieving eyebrow.

“You must not be in Paris often,” Treville deadpans, letting his identity speak for himself.

“So you _are_ here,” Vincent says, shooting a glance of pure poison at Athos. “Some of your Musketeers seemed to believe otherwise.”

Athos gives the barest shrug. _An honest mistake,_ his aura murmurs indifferently.

Treville looks bored. “Did you come here to check on how well-informed my Musketeers are about my whereabouts?” he asks derisively.

“No,” Vincent says ominously. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a scroll of parchment, which he unrolls. Seeing it, Richelieu’s heart sinks. Scrolls are old-fashioned and inefficient. But they’re official. Judicial. Richelieu can’t read the seal through the tiny crack he’s left himself to see with, but he doesn’t have to read it to know exactly what the scroll proclaims.

Marie de’ Medici’s opening gambit. Whether she’s guessed Treville’s importance to Richelieu outright, or is just moving to pluck the low-hanging fruit first, is ultimately irrelevant. This strike is at Richelieu, and the stakes are the throne.

Vincent clears his throat self-importantly. “Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville, you are herebly placed under arrest for gross negligence, dereliction of duty, and suspicion of collusion with a foreign power.” He cocks his head and smiles, a smug, cruel smile. “You are to be conducted to the Bastille at once, there to await trial at the crown’s pleasure.”

“What are these charges?” Treville demands scornfully. “The King isn’t even in Paris! On whose orders am I accused?”

“The Queen Mother’s orders,” Vincent answers.

There’s a sound of parchment crinkling; Treville’s snatched the scroll from the guard’s hands and is scanning it rapidly. He pales. The three Musketeers in the room growl, bristle and fold their arms.

“Come quietly,” the idiot in charge of the arrest squad says, “and it may go better for you.”

“The Captain isn’t going anywhere,” Besson snaps. Cazal lays a restraining hand on his arm.

“Are the orders legal?” Athos asks.

“They appear to be,” Treville says. His voice is perfectly steady, but Richelieu can see his hands tremble.

“Orders can be forged,” Cazal growls.

“Are you accusing us?” one of Vincent’s bullyboys growls.

“Maybe we ought to teach you some manners,” another one speaks up.

“That’s usually the sort of thing I leave to mothers,” Athos remarks. His cool, cultured tones don’t rise to the implied threat; he sounds bored, like he’s inspecting a poor batch of wares at market.

One of the King’s – no, _Marie’s_ guards lunges forward. Richelieu realizes that Athos’ pose is deliberate. If he can provoke the Queen Mother’s men into attacking first, then the Musketeers can protect their Captain now and claim self-defense later.

Unfortunately, Vincent is clever enough to see the ploy. He throws out an arm into the chest of the one who stepped forward. “None of that,” he says. “Captain Treville, I am placing you under arrest in the name of France. Will you come quietly, or do I have to use force?”

Treville tenses. The Musketeers and Guards do likewise. For a moment the situation balances on the edge of a knife.

Abruptly, Treville thrusts the arrest orders into Athos’ arms. “Check these out,” he orders. Then he turns towards the guards. “You can do what you like,” he tells them. “But I’ll remember your faces later.”

“If you have a later,” Vincent says coolly. “Let’s go.”

Richelieu bites his lip. He wants to do something, to act. In his position he’s often had to wear patience like a second skin, but it’s hard to hold on to as he watches them take Treville away.

The moment the outer door closes, Besson lets out a particularly pungent oath and turns to kick Treville’s desk. It skids a full three inches across the floor with the force of his blow. Richelieu knows the feeling.

“Would you care to tell me why we just let the Captain get arrested?” Cazal hisses, turning towards Athos.

The senior Musketeer has the scroll open in his hands, reading it again. He raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Because we are far more good to him out here than we would be if _we’d_ gotten arrested.”

“We could’ve taken those guards,” Cazal growls.

“Undoubtedly,” Athos agrees. “And then the Queen Mother would have sent _four_ arrest squadrons, and we’d all be sharing a cell in the Bastille.”

“What do you propose we do with our freedom?” Besson demands. “I don’t know how to break into the Bastille.”

“No, that won’t do,” Athos says. “It’ll be politics that gets the Captain out of this.”

“Then what good are we?” Cazal wants to know. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a lot of friends at court.”

“We must raise funds,” Athos says. “I don’t know how long things will take, and the Bastille is an unpleasant place if you can’t pay off the jailer.”

“Right,” Besson says. He nods, looking better now that he has a task he understands. “I can visit a few old friends.”

“Go, then,” Athos says. “You too, Cazal.”

“What about you?” Cazal wants to know.

“I need to secure some of the captain’s papers. I’ll catch up later.”

It’s a lie. Richelieu can see it in his bearing. But apparently his two compantions don’t know that. They both take their leave.

Athos waits until the door closes behind them. Then he does, in fact, go around Treville’s desk and open a drawer. But the only thing he takes out is a blank sheet of paper.

Laying the arrest orders next to them, Athos takes up a pen and begins to write. It looks to Richelieu like he’s making notes of the pertient information from the scroll. The obvious question of why Athos can’t simply refer to the scroll is answered when Athos rolls up his notes, tucks them in his doublet, and exits. Leaving the scroll behind on Treville’s desk.

Well, well. Athos, at least, suspects that Treville will find friends in other places. Though he obviously doesn’t know the whole. If he did, he’d just call for Richelieu right then and discuss the matter. But he suspects at least that Richelieu will come by at some point soon, and has left the scroll for him there to find.

After Athos leaves, Richelieu waits a few moments longer just to be certain. Then he comes out and takes up the scroll, reading it carefully.

He'd been right. This has Marie’s fingerprints all over it. Richelieu rolls it up again, tapping his lips thoughtfully. Something has to be done. Something has to be done once and for all.

Hopefully Athos has the sense to keep Treville’s Musketeers out of this. This is the Cardinal’s problem to fix.


	6. Chapter 6

Once the clamor of the arrest squad's departure dies down, Richelieu slips out the side exit through Treville’s small courtyard and returns hastily to the Palais-Cardinal to mobilize his forces. The small handful of spies he can trust are set to ferreting out the exact details of Marie’s plans. The legion he doesn’t trust get the less delicate job of gathering additional information on Marie’s household. His Guards are unfortunately scattered, but he sends runners out to Boisrenard and Bernajoux with new orders. Another runner goes north to Milady with instructions to return to Paris as soon as she’s taken care of Richelieu’s spy.

Then he dresses in full robes and descends upon the Louvre with Jussac and Cahusac to watch his back.

People whisper at the sight of him, which only goes to prove what Richelieu had already known. Overnight, news of the Musketeers’ doomed mission had broken, and it’s had time to travel. Savoy is screaming. Spain is sharpening its knives. The merchant classes are outraged. No one yet knows about Cluzet’s disappearance, but when that gets out it will be like a second earthquake. And Marie has made no effort to keep Treville’s arrest a secret.

They’re past thrust and counter-thrust, skullduggery and subterfuge. The court is drawing its own conclusions. Several nobles scatter at the sound of Richelieu’s footfalls. Others approach him, walking a few paces with him and talking of nothing in particular, making their support known.

The initial tally is unsurprising. Marie hasn’t yet really had a chance to flex her claws. Allegiances will ebb and flow in the coming days.

Ordinarily, time would be on Richelieu’s side. But here his decision to send Louis out of the capital comes back to roost. With the King out of the way, Marie can move freely.

When he returns, there will be a reckoning. Louis will demand to know why his mother has imprisoned his favorite, the Captain of his Musketeers. He’ll want to know why twenty of Treville’s men are dead. He’ll want answers to the Savoyan outrage, the Spanish posturing, and the discontent among those whose taxes fund his reign.

Most of all, he’s going to want someone’s head. Marie has made it plain that she means for it to be Richelieu’s. Richelieu, naturally, intends it to be hers. It’s time and past he puts an end to her endless schemes. France will have no stability until she’s been pulled out, root and branch.

And the fact that she'd dared strike at Treville – well, it will sweeten the look on her face when the King signs her order of exile.

The Duc d’Luynes is still walking with Richelieu as he approaches the wing of the Louvre taken over by the Queen Mother. When Charles d’Albert realizes Richelieu’s destination, he nods and withdraws. The Cardinal, by contrast, brushes straight past the guard on Marie de’ Medici’s door, entering her drawing room without stopping. The late hour assures him she’s decent, and that’s all he really cares about.

Within, a small group of noblewomen are present. Needlework is everywhere, though no one is paying particular attention to it. Whatever conversation had been carrying on comes to an abrupt halt with Richelieu’s entrance, as every pair of eyes swivels to him. Richelieu, for his part, looks directly at Marie, who doesn’t bother to appear surprised.

“Get out,” Richelieu says evenly to everyone within the chamber, not taking his gaze from the Queen Mother.

Marie raises her eyebrows at him, then glances to one side. “Leave us.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, with a rustle of silk, the various noblewomen who make up Marie’s court exit the room.

Marie’s maid remains behind. “You too,” the Cardinal says to her.

“Go, Catherine,” the Queen Mother says. The woman hesitates, glancing at Richelieu, and Marie laughs. “I’m sure we can trust a man of the cloth to maintain my virtue, even without a chaperone.”

“Your Majesty holds a high opinion of me,” Richelieu says carefully, while Catherine clears the room and closes the door behind her. The room is empty, but he’s not so foolish as to think no one is listening. The gloves may be off, but this still requires circumspection. One wrong word and she’ll claim it for a confession.

“Well, Cardinal, what brings you here?” Marie asks. She remains carefully posed on her reclining couch, relaxed and carefree.

“I hear you’ve imprisoned the head of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Oh, yes. Captain Treville.” Marie shakes her head. “Can you believe such negligence, Cardinal? Twenty Musketeers dead because he took it into his head to send them to Savoy for military exercises. At a time like this! With tensions between our countries as they are! Why, it’s a miracle it didn’t start a war.”

“Foolish though the Captain’s decision may have been,” Richelieu bites, “it hardly seems to merit imprisonment.”

“Then your spies are failing you. Mine tell me that the actual motive wasn’t training at all.” Marie leans forward, pasting an exaggerated expression of surprise on her face. “He was trying to assassinate the Duke.”

“Impossible,” Richelieu says flatly.

“Papers were discovered,” Marie shoots back. “They are quite incriminating.”

“Signed?” Richelieu asks superfluously.

“Of course not, don’t be silly.” Marie shrugs. “But it’s enough.” Enough for the arrest, she means. It’ll never be proved, but who needs proof? Marie’s game is bigger than that.

She’s nothing if not an opportunist, and this is the opportunity of the century. Twenty Musketeers sent to murder the Duke of Savoy? Orders implicating them in an assassination plot? The simultaneous disappearance of Savoy’s Chancellor? All of it happening mere weeks after a Savoyan emissary to Spain is murdered in the wilds of Gascony? It’s child’s play to spin a tale of murder, conspiracy and treachery. It will begin with Treville, but Richelieu has no doubt that – if Marie has her way – it will end with the Cardinal.

And if it means that France will take irrevocable losses in its land, military power, and international standing – well, Marie has never been able to see beyond her own selfish desires.

“I’m sure this news comes as a shock to you, Cardinal,” Marie goes on. “I hear that lately you and the Captain had become quite good friends.”

“He saved the King’s life this past spring,” Richelieu says, mouth dry.

“It must have been all part of his plan,” the Queen Mother says, feigning distaste. “How perfectly terrible.”

She shudders artfully. Richelieu hates her more in that moment than he would have thought possible.

Unfortunately, hatred isn’t a useful emotion. He pushes it aside and changes tacks. “We must discover everything we can about his scheme,” Richelieu says. “I must speak with your spies.” And persuade them to a different version of events, if possible. Some of them may be venal enough for it.

“Cardinal, you know better than that,” she scolds. “If I let you do that, they wouldn’t be very good spies any more, now would they?”

“But Treville’s betrayal must be proved,” Richelieu persists. Marie hesitates, and he can see the wheels turning in her head. She knows perfectly well that Richelieu intends to coopt anyone he can; she doesn’t want him anywhere near her spy network. But they’re still playing it straight, which means that she needs a good reason to refuse.

She and Richelieu may be oil and water, but in one vital respect they are identical: they both derive their power _through_ Louis. Marie cannot put herself on the throne any more than Richelieu can. The crisis in Savoy has created an opportunity for Marie, and Richelieu’s having sent Louis out of the capitol gives her an opening in which to consolidate her power.

But every opening closes eventually. Hers has a time limit: seven days. When the King returns, Marie needs to present him with a _fait accompli_. Her enemies framed for treason, herself the virtuous martyr-mother of France, and Louis the mighty saviour, ready to rid the realm of its enemies. Wielding the sword his mother presents.

There’s just one problem – Louis _likes_ Marie’s enemies. Richelieu is in many ways the father Henry IV never had time to be. And Treville filled the role of elder brother. After Treville’s father had been so beloved of Henry IV, Louis had sought out the surviving son, and transferred him young into the then-new Musketeers’ regiment. Treville had really made the Musketeers what they were today, and the cadre of noblemen’s sons who had hung around Louis in those early days had been more friends than servants, back when Louis could still afford friends.

The King won’t put Treville aside easily. Marie needs the case against him to be absolutely watertight. Which means she can’t afford to deny Richelieu’s request. Even if she later plans to tar the Cardinal with the same brush and lock them up in neighboring cells, the fuss Richelieu can make in the meanwhile will be remembered and brought up.

All of this goes through Marie’s mind at the same time it does Richelieu’s. The Queen Mother sighs. “Oh, very well, if it will make you happy,” she says carelessly, rising from her seat and strolling towards the door. “Catherine!” she calls.

A moment passes with no response. Marie opens the door and tries again. “Catherine?”

A different woman appears in the door, in Louis’ colors instead of Marie’s. Marie frowns at her. “Where’s Catherine?”

“Madame de Touchard was called away,” the woman says nervously. “She said you ordered it, your Majesty.”

 _Madame de Touchard_. Richelieu keeps a frown from his face. There’s something about that name that rings a bell, dim and distant, in his memory. Something… what is it?

“Oh, yes, of course.” Marie shrugs as if none of it matters. “Well, you’ll do. Go and tell Captain Vincent that the Cardinal will be talking to him. Tell him to give the Cardinal any help he requires.”

The young woman curtsies and scurries off. Marie turns back to Richelieu and favors him with a condescending smile. “Will that do?”

“Perfectly,” he lies, bringing himself back to the matter at hand. He favors the Queen Mother with a little bow. Richelieu’s under no illusions that he’ll actually receive anything but delays. But Marie making the head of her personal guard available neatly sidesteps any further responsibility. If Captain Vincent doesn’t give Richelieu the information he wants, Marie will simply be shocked that her orders have been disregarded.

“Excellent,” Marie says. Her gaze sharpens. “Then you may leave us.”

Much as he hates the appearance of yielding, there's nothing to be gained by pushing farther, and he's old enough to know it. “Thank you, your Majesty,” Richelieu says again, and bows again, and withdraws.

Then he goes to see his Captain.

* * *

“I know I went on a lot about spycraft and skullduggery,” Treville says from his cell in the Bastille. “And telling you I didn’t approve of it. And that I didn’t want you to do things for me because I won’t be bribed or bought.” He glances away, out the small cell window, the back of his neck reddening. “But in case you were thinking that – this is an exception. I definitely want you to do what it takes to get me out of this.”

“You needn’t even ask,” Richelieu soothes, momentarily amused at the idea. “You can’t really have thought I’d leave you here to rot?”

“No,” Treville says, relaxing. “Not really.”

“The wheels are turning,” Richelieu promises. He twitches with the urge to get closer, to reach out and touch. He’s in the cell with Treville – visiting only, though he has no doubt Marie would like them to share it in truth – the door closed behind them for privacy, the guard bribed. The temptation is nearly overwhelming. He arranges his hands behind his back to still them.

Treville nods and tries what he no doubt means to be a patient smile. “You don’t have to tell me that these things take time.”

“Not that much time,” Richelieu says. “One way or another, this will all be over in a week.”

Treville blinks. Then the light dawns. “When the King returns.”

“Yes.”

One week. It’s not a long time. By the standards of political machination, it’s an eyeblink. But nevertheless it’s the time horizon both Richelieu and Marie are working against.

Three days ago, Richelieu sent Louis out of the capitol to keep him out of the fallout from the Savoyan operation. In seven more, Louis will ride back into Paris. What he finds here will determine the future of France.

Marie has declared herself. Everyone is scrambling to choose sides.

“Has she come here yet?” Richelieu asks intently. Dead bodies are proof of action but not intent. Treville is officially protesting that his men were sent to the border for military exercises and any other papers they were carrying are a complete surprise to him. It’s not the best defense – people will sooner believe treachery over incompetence, particularly of a man like Treville – but it will hold up legally. At least, it’ll hold up long enough.

And Marie will know it. Which means she’ll be looking to shake his story. She’ll have agents out looking for proof to the contrary, of course. But how much simpler if Treville were to confess, and, incidentally, implicate Richelieu as well…

“No,” Treville says. And then, anticipating Richelieu’s next question, “Neither have her people. No one’s attempted any sort of questioning.”

“Good.” Richelieu relaxes. It would be illegal, irregular, and counter to decades of tradition for Marie to use physical persuasion on a nobleman. But he doesn’t put it past her. He has his own men in the Bastille, of course, but so does Marie. Richelieu isn’t as confident as he’d like to be that his people could stop hers. She’s been planning this for a long time.

Treville glances reflexively around, even though he’s in a cell and there’s really no way someone else could be listening in. He also lowers his voice. “I’ve only been accused of treason so far,” he whispers. “And I imagine Marie would add the other if she had even the slightest notion, but… does she suspect?”

Richelieu doesn’t have to ask what he means. Actually, he’s surprised that these hadn’t been the first words out of Treville’s mouth, once the cell door had been closed behind them and they could speak with some degree of privacy.

It’s certainly the first thing Richelieu had devoted himself to learning. Had Marie’s choice of Treville as her opening target been luck, or had she known about his preferences – and Richelieu’s?

“She knows nothing,” Richelieu promises him, voice low and passionate. “I am as sure of that as I am of God’s existence. She does not even suspect. She went after you because it was your Musketeers who went to Savoy. Nothing else. I swear it. You’re safe.”

For the few hours until he could satisfy himself that Marie knew nothing, Richelieu felt a kind of fear he’d never known before. He’d always known that, even with all his precautions, he might be found out one day. It would be a lie to say that the thought doesn’t scare him, but he’d accepted that fear a long time ago, and made his choices and his peace with it. What frightens him beyond measure is the thought that _Treville_ might be found out. Richelieu hasn’t yet had the opportunity to put any measures in place to protect his Captain. Treville’s history makes him vulnerable. Never married, no mistresses, career soldier…

“You mean _we’re_ safe.” Treville exhales, visibly shaky with relief, but meets Richelieu’s gaze squarely. “I meant what I said last night. We’re in this together.”

Richelieu smiles involuntarily. There’s simply no other reaction to be had.

Treville smiles back, then rolls his shoulders and sits back down on his bed. “Exactly how bad is this?”

“Bad,” Richelieu answers him after the briefest moment of consideration. He wouldn’t admit it anywhere else, certainly nowhere someone might hear him. His enemies often call Richelieu arrogant, but right now his sheer force of personality is one of his best tools. He will need all the magnetism he can get to attract and hold noble allies over the coming days.

The problem is proof. Treville’s misunderstanding with the Musketeers is proving devastating far beyond the loss of life. Those twenty bodies link Treville to the events in Savoy in a way that cannot be concealed. It will take a certain kind of bloody-mindedness to look past that, one that few sons of France possess.

“What are you doing about it?” Treville wants to know. “Can I – ” he grimaces. “Can my Musketeers be of any help?”

“They are already helping,” Richelieu assures him. “Your Athos is a treasure. They’re handling protection for the nobles supporting us in court. Paris is a dangerous place right now.”

Treville nods. “And you?”

“I?”

“Who’s helping you?”

Richelieu looks at him for a long moment. “God,” he says gravely.

Treville makes a sound that’s half laugh, half choke. “ _God_ – ”

The sound of a fist pounding against the cell door makes them both jump. “Time’s up,” the guard shouts loudly through the thick wooden slab.

Treville surges up and grips Richelieu by the shoulders. “Take care of yourself,” he says, fast and intent. “Do you hear me? Don’t get so wrapped up in politics you forget to have an escape route ready. I know you don’t want to think she’ll win, but you said it was bad, so you need to be ready to protect yourself – ”

“I can’t let her have France,” Richelieu says steadily. And his soul flinches at the thought of the fate he’d be consigning Treville to if he fled Paris. Treville hasn’t realized it yet: along with everything else, his presence in the Bastille is a guarantee that Richelieu won’t slip out of the capital and get hold of Louis early. If the Cardinal could get in front of Louis, he could explain the whole situation to him, and ride back into Paris with Marie’s decree of exile already in his pocket. Marie needs to hold Richelieu here, and Treville is how she will do it. The moment the Cardinal leaves the city, Treville’s life is forfeit – knowing Marie, in the cruelest way possible.

“I said time’s up,” the guard shouts again. He’s one of Richelieu’s, but there are others who belong to Marie. Too many others.

“One moment,” Richelieu calls, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Captain Vincent’s on his way over,” the guard adds, more quietly.

“You don’t want to still be here when he arrives,” Treville says, sounding out of breath.

“No,” Richelieu agrees. But he doesn’t move.

“Go,” Treville urges. “Richelieu, go.”

“All right,” Richelieu says, giving in to necessity. He can’t stop himself from leaning in for just one kiss, though, fast and passionate and searing. “I’ll be back. I’ll get you out of here.”

“I know,” Treville says, cutting off all the promises Richelieu wants to make. “But you can’t do that from in here. Go, please. And don’t forget what I said.”

“Yes,” Richelieu manages, and has to look away. He’s all too aware of Treville’s gaze on his back, and he pulls the door open without turning around, too afraid of what he’ll do to look back as he flees.

* * *

The next four days spin out like thread from the spindle, stretched thin to the point of breaking. Paris is like an armed camp. No one goes about alone or unprotected. Fights are breaking out on every street corner, and the men who aren’t gutted on the spot are hauled away for breaking the anti-dueling edicts. Richelieu and Marie post bail, and then the whole cycle starts over again.

In what is surely a sign of the apocalypse, the Musketeers and the Red Guards find themselves fighting together against the large swaths of the regular army who are under Marie’s sway. Cahusac takes a sword-thrust through the leg and another through the chest defending two Musketeer novices. From his sickbed, he sends to ask for Richelieu’s absolution.

“It’s not natural,” he mutters in his defense when Richelieu comes and blesses him. “Like consorting with the devil.”

“The devil you know,” Jussac muses from Richelieu’s side. The Guardsman hasn’t left it since riding into Richelieu’s command post outside Paris, bearing the news of the Musketeers’ massacre. Richelieu wishes he could send him away; he has so few men he can truly depend on, and Jussac can be trusted to speak in Richelieu’s name, cement alliances and persuade recalcitrant allies. But Richelieu’s been jumped twice already by “footpads” who barely tried to conceal that they wore Marie’s colors.

Turn and turn about: Richelieu would have tried it, too, if he had anyone he thought could actually kill Marie. Milady is racing back to Paris from as fast as she can come. If she makes it in time, he might put her on it. Unfortunately, Marie’s death would be a lot harder to explain to Louis than Richelieu’s would be.

While the Cardinal visits around the nobility and persuades them all to support his narrative of events, his spies are busy trying to prove Marie’s connection to Savoy. Thanks to Marie, there’s no hope at all of casting the events of Savoy in any way other than an utter disaster. The question now is one of blame.

Marie is so far doing an admirable job of framing the entire mess as being Richelieu’s fault. Her narrative is straightforward. The French assassination attempt on Savoy is not only a breach of the Treaty of 1601, not only a _casus belli_ which places France in a false position, but treason of the highest order. Her proof is twenty dead bodies in Musketeers’ uniforms and assassination orders in Richelieu’s hand. The simultaneous disappearance of Cluzet is doubtless more of Richelieu’s scheming.

Richelieu’s position is equally simple, but, unfortunately, more secret. He acted with Louis’ full knowledge to save the life of his sister, Christine Marie. The addition of Treville’s Musketeers happened at the last minute and muddies the waters, but under normal circumstances Richelieu would have no trouble explaining the matter to the King. He has the truth on his side.

But, as a King, Louis has to care about more than the truth. He has to care about France’s internal stability and its international reputation. If Marie is successful in pushing her narrative of incompetence, double-dealing and treason, the best thing for Louis – the best thing for _France_ – will be to disavow knowledge of the entire fiasco, shove the blame onto Richelieu and Treville, and exile or kill them both.

Marie has the easy job. She only needs to spread her story far and wide, so that it is the prevailing truth when Louis rides back into Paris. Richelieu’s task is harder. He must come up with an alternative, equally plausible history, and shove the blame back on Marie. He has to do it in a way Louis will believe, and in a way that will saves face with Savoy and Spain. And he has three days left in which to do it.

He’s been twice more to see Treville. The time is hard to spare, but Richelieu hates the thought of him there, alone, vulnerable to Marie’s whims. He only stayed away yesterday because Jussac pointed out the danger in his visits. Half of Marie’s plan revolves around tying Treville to Richelieu. Political expediency could explain most of Richelieu’s actions, but not his visits to Treville’s cell.

Jussac, always truthful, had added that Athos shared these concerns – indeed, that the Musketeer had been the one to raise them in the first place. Athos has been coordinating with Jussac to provide protection for the nobles allied with Richelieu’s faction. Which apparently includes telling Jussac that Richelieu should stay away from the Bastille.

“If you’re expecting an apology, you’re in for a long wait,” Athos shrugs. He’s standing in Richelieu’s office, the picture of the noble Musketeer, elegant and refined. There’s nothing to show his party had been attacked again on their way to the Palais-Cardinal, and another two Musketeers are injured.

“I’m not,” Richelieu dismisses. There’s no point; everyone involved acted as they thought best, which is the most futile sort of thing to protest. Even if it did leave Richelieu on edge, battling a constant, low-level current of worry about what might be going on at the Bastille at any given moment. “What did you come here to tell me? Since I doubt it was to discuss your lack of concern for my opinions.”

“The Comte de Chalais has declared for Marie.”

“I’m not surprised.” The man is an ambitious idiot. Richelieu’s always squelched him hard; naturally he’s looking for an edge.

“And Monsieur has been seen taking ship from Lorraine. He may be here before Louis, if the weather holds.”

“Damn,” Richelieu says softly. He presses his lips together against the urge to swear.

“We must find the Queen Mother’s connection to Savoy,” Athos says. “It’s the only hope of turning the blame back onto her.”

“An excellent suggestion. What way of accomplishing it have you devised that escapes me?”

Athos shrugs. “Discover one of her confidants who will speak.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Richelieu says grimly.

“Surely Marie doesn’t inspire that much loyalty?”

“Broadly, no. But she seems to have inspired it in those who matter most. She’s kept her plans tight, and those who know them won’t betray her.”

“Her guard captain? Vincent?”

“Also her lover.”

“What about servants?” Athos presses. “Her maid? She’ll know much.”

Richelieu shakes his head, still bent over the papers on his desk. “Too loyal. The maid’s been with her for twenty years.”

A small frown appears between Athos’ eyes. “Who told you that?”

Richelieu’s head comes up. He looks at Athos’ face, and says, “A moment.”

It takes longer than that, actually, to find the relevant report from the piles on his desk. Marie’s household had been one of the first targets of Richelieu’s investigation. “Here it is,” he says at length. “Her history. Traced back and verified. She’s been with Marie since before Henry IV’s assassination.”

The frown deepens. “Perhaps I mistook her,” Athos murmurs. “And yet I thought…”

“Thought what?”

Athos shrugs slightly. “A friend of my wife’s, about – when I had a wife. I thought I had seen Marie’s maid in service with her.”

“Could it be the same woman?”

“I only saw her a few times. The friendship didn’t last. Madame de Touchard left the county shortly after my wife’s death.”

“Hmm,” Richelieu says absently. He’s distracted for a moment by the reference to Athos’ past, which the Musketeer has kept quiet to the point where Richelieu knows almost nothing about it beyond the factual – his title, his family history, the value of his land. And, catnaps aside, he hasn’t slept in seventy-two hours. It takes him a full thirty seconds before the pieces come together.

Then Richelieu demands, “ _What_ name did you say?”

Athos blinks. With cool deliberation he pronounces it: “Madame de Touchard.”

Richelieu leans back in his chair. “Well, well,” he murmurs. “A few days ago I was with the Queen Mother when she asked for her maid, Catherine. And another of her women told her that _Madame de Touchard_ had been called away.”

“The servant?” Athos’ eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you sure you knew which was which – when you had a wife?”

“Yes,” Athos says after a moment of deliberation. “I am sure. Because, now that I recall it, quite a point was made of introducing themselves to me – in that order.”

Richelieu nods slowly. “What better cover for a spy than as a servant? With a title at her back, just in case she should ever need it.”

“I wonder,” Athos murmurs thoughtfully. “Just what was it that called Madame de Touchard away from Marie’s side, a few days ago?”

Richelieu leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. “She must be Marie’s spymaster,” he says slowly. Several discordant elements of the past few months are beginning to spin into their proper alignment. Vincent never made sense as Marie’s spymaster, but Richelieu had accepted him as such because no other suitable candidate had emerged. He’s hardly prone to overlooking servants – too many of them are in his employ, for a start – but Catherine’s performance had been masterful. She’s truly top-tier. And given that, the success of Marie’s false information campaign over the past few days is suddenly far more plausible.

“So she’s out bribing and blackmailing support for Marie’s side.” Athos raises one eyebrow. “Isn’t this the sort of thing you’re supposed to know about?”

“You don’t have to tell me I erred,” Richelieu snaps. “I overlooked Catherine de Touchard completely.”

“Assuming Catherine is even her real name.”

“It must be,” Richelieu says absently, mind already racing forward to recalculate the next few days’ efforts in light of this new information.

“How can you be sure?” Athos challenges.

“What?”

“How can you be sure Catherine is her real name? She was calling herself Angelique when my wife knew her.”

Richelieu shakes his head. “I don’t know, I just – ” He stops abruptly. “Wait.”

Athos falls obligingly silent.

“I’ve seen the name before,” Richelieu says with sudden certainty.

“Yes, in the report your spies brought you,” Athos points out. “But just because she’s calling herself Catherine now doesn’t mean – ”

“No. Somewhere else.” Richelieu frowns, staring off into nothingness. “Where?”

“In another report?”

“Yes…”

“Something you’ve looked at recently,” Athos suggests.

Richelieu blinks once. Twice.

And then he knows.

“What?” Athos demands.

Richelieu’s already seated behind his desk. It’s a simple matter to reach over and pull open the bottom drawer. The one with the false bottom.

Applying pressure to the hidden catches causes the compartment to pop open to reveal a stack of papers. Near the top, tied in a neat bundle, are the documents Richelieu took from Gasteau’s dead body.

Richelieu’s fingers don’t shake as he unties the ribbon. Nor do they shake as he leafs through them rapidly.

There. On the bottom of the stack. The document that proclaims Gasteau’s legitimacy. It’s a testimonial to his birth, swearing that he is the natural son of the King, Henry VII.

Richelieu stares at the document, calling himself three kinds of a fool for not having seen it sooner. Why hadn’t he wondered who would sign such a document? Why hadn’t he asked himself who would be in a position to swear to a child’s paternity?

The child’s mother, of course. But who would believe her? If it were that easy, every unwed daughter in France would be claiming their child is a royal by-blow.

There only one woman who would be believed without question, if she alleged that her child were the King’s.

Richelieu holds the paper up to the light. Studies the signatures again. There are two. One is the nurse’s.

_Catherine de Touchard._

Mme de Touchard had sworn to Gasteau’s paternity, as nurse and witness. That's the first link. And the other signature on the page…

At first glance, it appears to be merely the illiterate scribble of a peasant pretending nobility. And Richelieu had taken it as such. He’d been in too much of a hurry when he’d first seen the paper to study it closely.

But seeing it again now, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he has no doubt. The signature is the Queen Mother’s. Deliberately disguised, but hers all the same.

Not an illegitimate heir at all. A _legitimate_ one. The full brother of the King, hidden away by the Queen Mother. Why?

 _Does it matter?_ Well, yes, it matters. But not right away. Gasteau had clearly not known it; he’d believed himself illegitimate. He hadn’t looked closely at the paper. Or, more likely, he hadn’t been familiar with Marie de’ Medici’s signature. Regardless, the man is dead, and his dreams of kingship with him.

But Marie de’ Medici, and her dreams of power, are still very much alive. _She_ had been the one to obtain all of those promises of support from the nobility. _She_ had been the one to prime Gasteau with a sense of his own destiny, and then turn him loose towards Louis, like an arrow from a bow.

And in Richelieu’s hands is the proof. Marie de’ Medici had tried to have Louis killed.

“You must take it to Louis,” Athos says rapidly. Richelieu jumps; for a moment, while his mind turned through all the implications of the paper in his hands, he’d forgotten anyone else is in the room with him. Athos has come around the side of Richelieu’s desk, and stands at his shoulder, looking down at Gasteau’s decree of birth. “You must get out of Paris and take it to him at once.”

“I can’t leave,” Richelieu says in instant denial. Perhaps he can send a messenger – but who? He has many that Marie doesn’t know of, who could leave the city without her realizing they’re Richelieu’s. But their insignificance makes them worthless: they’d never get an audience with the King. Anyone prominent enough to get in to see Louis is prominent enough to trip Marie’s spy network. And Treville would pay the forfeit for Richelieu’s daring.

“The signature is smudged,” Athos presses. “The Queen Mother could dispute it. You must give her no choice.”

Richelieu looks back down. Athos is right.

If the Cardinal had inescapable proof, he’d take it to Marie. Convince her to free Treville, recant her accusations of treason, and withdraw from public life. It would avoid the scandal that would damage the house of Bourbon. It would keep the secret of Gasteau’s legitimacy. Most importantly, it would allow the King’s opinion of his mother to remain relatively intact.

But Marie wouldn’t go for anything less than absolute proof. And if Richelieu tips his hand early, she’s capable of much. Capable of murder. She has guards in the Bastille, just as Richelieu does. A little poison in Treville’s wine…

“You must take it to the King,” Athos repeats inexorably.

Richelieu can’t emulate the mistakes of Cluzet. The proof isn’t ironclad, no. But it’s enough, more than enough, to take to Louis. Louis knows his mother’s hand intimately; he’ll recognize the signature. He knows what Marie is capable of. And he trusts Richelieu implicitly. Taken together, it will be enough.

If he could get in front of Louis. But – “The minute I leave Paris, she’ll have Treville killed. Or worse.”

Athos doesn’t turn a hair. “You must leave that to us.”

Richelieu shakes his head. “You’re good, but you’re not that good. A last stand in a prison door won’t do Treville any good when they step over your corpses.”

Athos’ lips firm. “The good of France – ” he begins.

“No. Wait.” Richelieu throws up a hand. “Wait, I must think.”

Athos falls obligingly silent. Richelieu closes his eyes, mind racing.

“She must not know I’ve left Paris,” he says slowly.

“How will you accomplish that?”

“I’ve been injured,” Richelieu invents. “Earlier today I was attacked again by Marie’s forces – that is to say, by footpads. Several of my Red Guards were there. As it happens, so were you.”

Athos nods. “I remember it perfectly,” he says with all outward signs of truth.

“Afterwards I said I was all right, and we came back here. But I was lying. Just now I collapsed.”

“You’re confined to your room,” Athos picks up the tale. “It’s touch and go.”

“I fear another attempt on my life. Only my most trusted Guardsmen may come near me.”

“What about me?”

“You’re a Musketeer,” Richelieu says, straight-faced and bland. “We’re mortal enemies. I simply refuse to see you. You’ll have to interface with Jussac.”

“He’ll speak for you in every way?”

“It’ll be almost like I’m not even here. But that wouldn’t bother you, of course, because of how much you hate me.”

Athos smiles, implicitly conceding the point. “Naturally. Everyone knows that I think you’re a lying, viperous snake, and I detest you.”

“And I think you’re a sanctimonious, hypocritical blueblood,” Richelieu replies in kind. Then he smiles like a shark. “Therefore no one will be surprised when you spread the news of my wounds far and wide.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Athos says coolly, and goes to shout for help.

Things move very quickly after that. Jussac grasps the situation at once and dives right into the piles of paper on Richelieu’s desk, familiarizing himself with every detail he’ll need to know to issue orders as if he is the Cardinal. He knows a great deal already. Richelieu relies on Jussac almost as much as he does on Milady. Jussac’s reputation as Richelieu’s right-hand man is widely known, and he frequently speaks for Richelieu when the Cardinal needs to be in several places at once.

While they work, Athos goes and rouses Cahusac from his sickbed. The injured Guard may not be able to handle a sword, but he’s well enough to play nursemaid, especially when there’s no actual patient. The two of them will be the only Guards allowed in Richelieu’s apparent sickroom. Athos will make a point of blustering over this so that no one else does. Between the three of them, they’ll keep the political situation in balance until Richelieu can return with the King.

The charade won’t last long, but it doesn’t have to. A single man with few supplies can travel quickly on horseback. Half a day there, a night for the servants to pack, and one day back. Forty-eight hours.

Athos leaves to begin spreading the word of Richelieu’s injury and collapse. Richelieu starts pulling off his robes. Jussac is ready with a small pile of the most disgusting clothes that can be procured on short notice. Soot from the fireplace will blacken his hands and face, darken his hair and beard.

Once changed, another sort of training takes over. Automatically Richelieu stoops, ducking his head and rounding his shoulders. His gait becomes unsteady. It’s been a long time since he’s done this sort of thing for himself, but some things the body doesn’t forget.

“Here,” Jussac says, handing over the patched, dirty sack that Richelieu will carry. It contains a small purse, a set of ecclesiastical robes for him to change into once he’s clear of the city, and his own seal. There’s a small Guard post an hour’s walk from Paris that keeps two horses and supplies ready against just such an eventuality. He’ll change there and ride the rest of the way to Louis’ hunting-lodge, as fast as horseflesh can carry him.

Richelieu takes the sack. “God be with you,” he says. “Lord willing, I will be back before anyone realizes my injury is a ruse. If I’m not…”

“I’ll gather the Guards and we’ll make our stand in the Bastille,” Jussac promises. “It’s the most defensible place in Paris anyway. We’ll hold it till you get back, never fear.”

Richelieu nods. He bows his head quickly in prayer. To God he first gives thanks that he is blessed with such servants as Jussac, such allies as Athos, and such a companion as Treville. And then he begs the Lord’s help in setting matters to rights in France.

He crosses himself resolutely, then looks up. “Forty-eight hours,” he repeats.

“Go with God,” Jussac says fervently.

* * *

At dusk on the same day, Louis looks up from the paper, his face wet with tears.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Cardinal?”

“I’m afraid so, your Majesty,” Richelieu says gently. He’s weary from his swift ride, and the robes he’d hidden in his saddlebags are rumpled and travel-stained. But he’s willing to bet that he looks better in this moment than the King does, confronted with stark proof of his mother’s treachery and hatred.

“She tried to have me killed.” Louis brushes impatiently at his eyes. “And she tried to use my own brother to do it.”

“Half-brother,” Richelieu corrects. He’d learned Gasteau’s real parentage on the road, when he’d crossed paths with Milady. She’d been in the employ of Marie de’ Medici once, before Richelieu’s ascendance, and she’d helped arrange the assignation that had led to Gasteau. He had been no son of Henry IV. That, like so many other things Marie had doubtless told him, had been a lie. Gasteau’s real father had been the Queen’s lover, Concino Concini.

But, as Gasteau himself had said, _Marie de’ Medici ain’t what makes someone a Bourbon._ And so the entire train of lies and deceit had lurched into motion. A hidden child, a smudged signature, a nurse-maid lying to a young boy about his paternity. And thus might the course of nations have been altered.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it, Cardinal?” Louis asks morosely. “He was still my blood.”

Richelieu does not point out that they had always known that Gasteau had been Louis’ blood. When Athos’ bullet had killed the would-be assassin, they’d thought he'd been Henry’s son. Now they know he'd been Marie’s. Either way, he'd been Louis’ sibling.

Though not, after all, a Bourbon. Richelieu doesn’t mention that; he doubts it would make Louis feel better.

Louis lets the papers fall from his hands. They land gently on his desk with little flutters. They’re inside the hunting-lodge – Louis’ favorite one, this time, the one they’d never reached on that fateful trip. Louis hadn’t had a desk here in the spring. He’s had it installed since. Richelieu thinks Louis might finally be starting to understand what being a King really means.

“She’s my mother,” Louis says at last.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Richelieu says respectfully.

“I won’t have her killed.”

“No, your Majesty,” Richelieu agrees. It wouldn’t be good for France regardless. “Exile should be more than sufficient.”

“Yes. Exile.” Louis rubs at his eyes again. “Have the decrees drawn up, Cardinal. If she ever sets foot in France again, the penalty will be death.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Inform the servants. We ride back to Paris in the morning.” Louis sighs. “I’ll want to tell her myself.”

Richelieu gathers up the papers on the desk.

“I’m going to see Anne.” Louis pushes to his feet. Richelieu backs away to give him room, bowing. Louis walks away, pausing in the door.

“It’s a funny world, Cardinal, where a mother tries to kill her son.” Louis shakes his head. “Anne tried to warn me about her. I didn’t want to listen. I thought there was no way she would ever go this far. She’s my mother. Isn’t she supposed to love me?”

“Yes,” Richelieu says gently. “Yes, she’s supposed to.”

“But the only thing she’s ever loved is power.” Louis is gazing out the window, to the lush grass and tall trees that surround the lodge. Tentatively, he asks, “Do you think Anne loves me?”

“I’m certain of it,” Richelieu says, letting the ring of truth enter his voice. He’d have lied to his King, if he’d had to, because Louis so obviously needs to hear these words. But he’s glad he doesn’t have to. He’s sure the Queen loves the King, and right now, that’s a thing to be grateful for.

“Good,” Louis says fiercely. “Good. You make sure nothing happens to Anne, Cardinal. Not ever. That’s an order.”

“I will do whatever it takes,” Richelieu promises.

“Love’s important. Mother never understood that. She tried to make me think love made me weak. But it doesn’t.”

“No,” Richelieu says with all his heart. “No, it doesn’t.”

Louis sighs. “Thank you, Cardinal. We leave for Paris in the morning. I know you’ll see to everything.”

Richelieu bows again. The King leaves.

Then the Cardinal sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! I'm hoping to get it out before the weekend, if life cooperates.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took to get written, especially since it ended up being shorter than I planned. The first 70% of this chapter was written almost immediately. The rest decided to drag its heels.
> 
> (Actually, it didn't even all get done. There's supposed to be a sex scene in here that absolutely _refused_ to get written. After a lot of failed drafts I decided to post the chapter without it. I don't think cutting it hurts the emotional arc at all, and I hate leaving people hanging, especially after I've already gone over my original estimate for posting. I hope at some point to be able to write that scene and include it as a bonus chapter or series installment.)
> 
> Without further ado...

To say Marie de’ Medici takes the news badly would be an understatement. She begs and screams and hurls accusations and abuse on everyone in France. It goes on for so long that Louis starts to waver. But Richelieu has the King’s signature on the document of exile, and all it takes a mention of Gasteau’s assassination attempt to have Louis’ spine stiffen back up.

In the end, Richelieu has to have his Guards drag her from the throne room, fainting. The servants are already cleaning out her rooms in the Louvre. By sunset, the Queen Mother is in a carriage leaving Paris, hopefully never to be seen again.

Her guard captain Vincent goes with her. Richelieu had tried to convince Louis to have him imprisoned, but there’s no proof of his involvement, and Louis still cares for his mother. He refuses to deprive her of her lover.

Richelieu lets him go only reluctantly. This is the man who imprisoned Treville, and who had been so clearly glad to do so. He would prefer the man be safely out of the way. But the King is immovable, and Treville wouldn’t thank Richelieu for employing his usual fallback method. As much as he hates staying his hand, Richelieu does it, watching Vincent walk out of the throne room behind the fainting Marie. But he locks eyes with Vincent one final time, and lets the other man see exactly how willing Richelieu will be to destroy him if he gives the Cardinal the slightest opportunity.

Catherine de Touchard, to his complete lack of surprise, is nowhere to be found. Whatever took her out of Paris three days ago has kept her away. Richelieu likes that even less. He has no doubt she’ll find her way back to Marie, and probably sooner rather than later. But he knows who she is, now. And he has Louis’ blessing to do whatever it takes to suppress Marie. It will have to do.

That done, Richelieu leaves Louis to be comforted by Anne and hurries out of the Louvre. He’d gotten Louis’ signature on Treville’s release order at the same time as he’d gotten it on Marie’s decree of exile, and he’d had that order sent ahead to Paris. Treville shouldn’t have spent a moment longer in the Bastille than necessary. Actually, Richelieu had been hoping that the Captain would meet the King’s retinue as it reentered the city, and let the Cardinal see for himself that Treville is out and safe. But that hadn’t happened, and Richelieu could hardly have abandoned Louis to carry out his mother’s exile alone. Heaven only knew what would have happened in that case.

Now it’s done.

Richelieu emerges into the red glow of Paris at sundown. His carriage is already waiting, Jussac seated on the box.

“The Musketeers’ garrison,” Richelieu orders. If Treville isn’t there, he’ll try the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, but he thinks Treville will have gone to the garrison first. After being arrested out of his hotel, Treville won’t want to go back there immediately. He’ll want to go somewhere safe.

Jussac doesn’t immediately gather up the reins. “If it pleases your Eminence,” he says significantly, “Captain Treville has called for you at the Palais-Cardinal, and says he awaits your leisure there.”

Richelieu blinks. “He does?”

Jussac nods. Richelieu takes a second look. His Guard’s face is suitably placid, but Jussac has been in Richelieu’s employ a long time, and the Cardinal sees the smile threatening to break free.

“Well then,” Richelieu says after a moment. “Let’s not keep the good Captain waiting, shall we?”

Jussac bows slightly. “Yes, your Eminence.”

The Palais-Cardinal isn’t far from the Louvre, but knowing Treville is there makes it seem suddenly endless. Richelieu knows intellectually that Jussac is travelling at a very respectable pace, but it feels slow. He resists the urge to tell Jussac to hurry up. The sight of the Cardinal’s carriage tearing post-haste through Paris is one that should really be avoided. It tends to make people nervous.

At last the carriage pulls up. The noise and bustle of the court puts Richelieu on his guard. It’s full of men and horses. The Cardinal forces himself to exit sedately, to all appearances calm and unhurried.

“Your Eminence!” Bernajoux cries, rushing over with a large smile. Richelieu casts a quick glance around. The troop he’d sent out nearly two weeks ago appears to all be here, fully accounted for, though he sees the white of bandages peeking out from under several sleeves and boot-tops.

Richelieu dredges up a smile, ignores his impatience, and returns Bernajoux’s greeting. “Everything went well, I trust?”

Bernajoux nods. “Very well indeed, your Eminence. Everything was carried out in accordance with your orders.”

“Excellent,” Richelieu says, infusing his tone with warmth and praise. “Everyone is well? No casualties?”

“Bumps and bruises only,” Bernajoux dismisses. He has a habit of downplaying injuries – some of the men dismounting are visibly limping – but everyone is present, so it will be well enough, given time. “I’ll make sure they all see doctors,” Bernajoux adds.

Richelieu nods. That much he can count on Bernajoux to handle: the man may not think an injury is serious, but he makes sure it gets treatment all the same. “And I think we’ll say four weeks’ leave, for you and all of your men,” he says, loudly enough that several of the other Guards and smile broadly, turning to whisper to their companions who may not have heard. “As well as the usual bonus.”

Bernajoux bows, grinning. “Thank you, your Eminence.”

“It’s no more than you deserve,” Richelieu says truthfully, still pitching his voice to carry. “This was a difficult mission, more than usually dangerous, carried out well and speedily. I am glad everyone is safe and sound. You’ve all earned it.”

“Your Eminence does us honor,” Bernajoux says. He raises his own voice in turn. “Of course everyone will need to stable their horses and care for their equipment first.”

Some good-natured grumbling breaks out around the yard at that, but it has the effect of getting the men moving again. The injured ones limp off towards the far wing of the Palais-Cardinal, where Richelieu’s private doctors make their offices. The other Guards gather up horses and equipment and begin heading around in the other direction towards the stables.

“You must take an extra week,” Richelieu adds to Bernajoux. “Your leadership was exemplary.”

“Thank you,” Bernajoux says again gratefully. He glances over at the rapidly emptying courtyard. “In that case, your Eminence, I’d better go take care of my men. Make sure they can get on without me.”

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” Richelieu says indulgently. Bernajoux gives him a grin and goes off to harangue two young Guardsmen about leaving their horses saddled in the middle of the courtyard after such a ride as they’d had. Richelieu watches him for a moment, smiling a little, then turns into the Palais-Cardinal.

The moment he steps inside, blinking a little in the light from the candelabra – it had gotten dark outside while he’d talked to Bernajoux, and he hadn’t realized – anticipation strikes him again. And worry. Jussac had said Treville is here, but Richelieu hadn’t seen his carriage in the courtyard or his horse tied up outside. It might have been stabled, of course. But that would imply a longer visit. Overnight? Did Richelieu dare hope for that?

He heads down the corridor as quickly as he can without breaking into a run. The length of the corridor from the antechamber to his office is a security feature, and necessary for the sort of liaison he hopes very much he’s about to carry on, but right now it seems like something out of a nightmare, where the exit gets farther away the faster one goes.

He reaches the door at last. Impatiently he pushes it open, coming to a halt just inside the door, and looks around for Treville.

The office is empty.

Richelieu breathes deep, still looking around it in confusion. There aren’t any signs of another person’s presence. In fact, it looks as if no one has been in here all day. Nothing is out of place. Except… wait. There is something. The door to his private chambers is ajar.

Hardly daring to breathe, Richelieu crosses his office and passes through the door.

“I was wondering when you would get back,” a familiar voice says. Treville is standing in the center of the room, studying the da Vinci hanging on the far wall. There are no windows here, for obvious reasons, but the paintings are arranged where windows would be.

When Richelieu doesn’t answer immediately, Treville turns towards the door. “I suppose the Queen Mother didn’t go easily?”

“What are you doing here?” Richelieu asks. Immediately he wants to kick himself. He hadn’t meant that to sound so accusing. He’d wanted to convey how pleased he is to see Treville, and how glad he is that Treville is all right, and his surprised pleasure that Treville had chosen to come here. Instead he’s managed to sound affronted, like Treville has invaded his space, when the opposite couldn’t be more true.

But Treville smiles.

Richelieu stares at that smile. It’s such an open expression that it looks odd on his face. Even when Treville had fallen asleep in Richelieu’s arms, the night before Marie de’ Medici had had him arrested, he hadn’t been so unguarded.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Treville says simply.

In that simple statement, Richelieu reads everything Treville doesn’t say. It’s a decision and a declaration all in one. An updated version of that quiet _yes_ Treville had murmured in his own rooms right before his arrest. It promises everything Richelieu had learned to want from him and more.

And Treville has come to him, this time. Needing to feel safe, he’d come to the Palais-Cardinal, to Richelieu’s private chambers, the heart of his power. He’s delivered himself willingly into Richelieu’s hands. And he smiles at the Cardinal without fear.

Richelieu reaches out to Treville and pulls him into a kiss that mingles relief, gratitude and love. Relief that the threat to them both, and to France, has been eliminated, that Treville is safe and apparently none the worse for his stint in the Bastille. Gratitude that Treville has chosen this, chosen _him_ , chosen to set his fear aside and take a chance on what they could become together. And love for the way Treville reaches back to him, presses them close, and kisses back without shame or inhibition.

“Thank you for getting me out of there,” Treville says breathlessly, when they finally pull apart.

“I wouldn’t leave you anywhere, much less the Bastille,” Richelieu says.

“I never thought it for a moment.”

“Really, my dear?” the Cardinal says somewhat acerbically. “Are you sure?”

“Well.” Treville coughs, a light blush dusting his cheekbones. “It did occur to me that you might drag the process out a couple of extra days to teach me a lesson. I was the one telling you how much your methods disgust me, after all.”

“I don’t think of you as a wayward servant,” Richelieu says, more sharply than he means. “I never did, but even if I had, I’d have changed my mind after the hunting-lodge. Why do you keep expecting me to act like that?”

Treville sighs. “You’re the politician; I’m sure you’re always thinking about those kinds of considerations. Why is it so surprising to you that I have trouble forgetting them?”

“I don’t think of you that way,” Richelieu says. “I don’t think of _us_ that way.”

“I have a hard time stopping,” Treville admits.

Richelieu frowns. Something’s not adding up. “Stopping what?”

“You’re always so calm about it,” Treville says, turning his head to stare at the da Vinci without seeing it. “Like none of it matters. Like we’re not risking our heads and our souls every time you look at me. It never seems to bother you – how can it not bother you?” The question is almost plaintive.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Richelieu promises. If he’d lost the political fight, he would have raised an army, razed the Bastille, and waged open war in the streets of Paris, if that’s what it had taken to protect France and Treville from Marie’s selfish ambitions.

“That’s not the point!” Treville turns back to face Richelieu. “You’re powerful, I get that. But you’re not omnipotent. If you were, I would never have been in the Bastille, and Marie de’ Medici would have spent the last decade doing stitchery in the convent at Bethune. She’s gone, but there will always be someone else. We’ll always be vulnerable. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Of course it does,” Richelieu says. “You know that.” Surely Treville knows that.

“But you still do this.” Treville’s gesture takes in the triply thick walls, the reinforced door, the echo chamber that carries sound in from the courtyard to warn of approaching visitors. It stretches to encompass the nonphysical – the spies Richelieu employs, the favors he’s expended, the deadly fight he won against the Queen Mother. “You risk yourself with me. Against Marie de’ Medici, you protected me. We were enemies – now, out of the blue, we’re allies? This could be what it takes for someone to figure it out.”

“I refuse to live in fear,” Richelieu says, trying to put some of this into words. “If I start, I’ll never finish. I’ll be afraid all my life. There will always be someone greater than me. If not on Earth, then in Heaven. I have to believe that God is merciful, not cruel. That man’s natural state is happiness, not misery. That I am here on this Earth to do good and not evil, and that when I find what is good, when I see what is right, I must pursue it, act on it, claim it, and not be deterred by those who would stop me, because that is the only way I know to serve the Lord and my King.”

“I’m not good,” Treville says fiercely. The ring of truth in his voice is unmistakable, and it stills Richelieu’s instinctive denial in his throat, long enough for Treville to go on. “I’ve killed. I’ve blasphemed, I’ve lusted…” he blushes. “You know well enough what I’ve lusted for.”

The urge to shake him is strong. “What happened to the man who talked about my backwoods murders and deadly games?” Richelieu demands.

“What are you saying?”

“That if you think I can be a good man in spite of all of that, then you have to believe that you can too.”

Treville’s mouth drops open, shocked. An involuntary step backward takes him out of Richelieu’s personal space, just barely far enough away for propriety. From that distance, Treville stares at Richelieu for a long, long moment.

“After all,” Richelieu says honestly, “I’m a monster.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster anymore,” Treville manages to say.

“Of course you do,” Richelieu says without rancor. “And you’re quite right. I _am_ a monster. I will always be a monster. I murder, I lie, I blackmail and I bribe. But I love God. And I love France. And, believe it or not – ”

Treville doesn’t let him finish. He surges forward and pulls Richelieu into another kiss. It’s awkward, and earnest, and fervent. And it’s entirely honest, without a single thing left trying to come between them.

Treville may not be able to say it, but his kiss is declaration enough for Richelieu.

“Yes,” Treville says again.

“To what?” Richelieu asks, although he knows perfectly well.

“To you,” Treville answers, and flashes him that smile Richelieu is coming to know so well.

There will always be dangers. Their positions, their professions, and, yes, their liaison, are all fraught with the possibility of disaster. They will never be safe. Never be secure. But they can choose to ignore that. They can choose, despite it all, to be together.

Treville smiles up at him sweetly and offers another kiss.

In front of them, the future beckons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I can't believe it's done! This was supposed to be an 8-15k fic. Instead it singlehandedly doubled the length of the series. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos. The encouragement made it possible to keep going as my original draft spiralled out of control and I despaired of ever getting the plot to gel. You are all wonderful and I hope the eventual fic gave you all as much happiness to read as it did me to write :)


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